Fly on the Wall:Following Sherlock Holmes
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sequel to Late:A Study in Punctuality . There s a crime wave in London and something must be done. Sherlock Holmes is no superhero, so why is everyone watching him so expectantly? And, talking of expectant , Molly Hooper seems to rather have her hands full too. Adventure; humour; friendship and love - always the love... So, let s all follow Sherlock!
1. Chapter 1

An Introduction by Molly Hooper, MD, PhD

Someone I know was once threatened (_jokingly, I think_) with getting killed. Instead of flinching with fear, or even being slightly offended, this _someone_ simply replied:

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," and carried on regardless.

This, kind of, sums up _everything_ about this person.

He is focused and strong, without fear or artifice. He has an erudite self confidence that sometimes belies belief – an assuredness that _his_ way is the right way, and that the problem will be solved because _his_ brain has sorted all the relevant data towards its ultimate reveal – the truth. He can seem cold and dismissive, but he finds heart to comfort the damaged, reassure the bewildered, brook promise for the desolate, and give peace to the tortured.

He has his bad days. He is no angel. But he is, sort of, _a miracle_.

He is the last bastion of hope for many in this great city of ours.

He is Sherlock Holmes.

**x0x**

Several Holmes`, three Watsons and a Hooper stand, sentinel-like, around the Moses basket. They collectively and silently stare down at its squirmy, snuffly, pink occupant, and marvel at the dark curls and bright blue eyes - as strong a genetic code as you could find anywhere. Molly Hooper yawns and smiles an exhausted smile, taking a teeny-tiny sip of _Tattinger `82_.

"A birth plan was, once again, terribly ambitious of me."

"Tremendously." Sherlock Holmes looks slyly under lowered lids, with a private smile at her.

And a gurgle and a squeak are all that break the subsequent stillness, which offers nothing but a nod of silent agreement.

**x0x**

Four months earlier…

"God love us, it`s looking like _anarchy in the UK_, these days."

John Watson, resplendent in stripy jumper (and a new blade to his razor, if observations are to be noted) turns another rustling page of _The Times_ and huffs and puffs as to the discordant ways of the world.

Sherlock Holmes is calibrating his microscope rather than eating any toast over the breakfast table, and John notes that _Skylab_ has not entirely prevented science bleeding into the domesticity of life in Baker Street.

"Crime has always been the great malefactor in a city like London, John. Modern media just allows us twenty four hour streaming of wrong-doings whenever we look at a screen or open a paper… my goodness, your gym membership has risen again – doesn't it just get harder and harder to stay fit and healthy?"

John ceases his rustle and folds down the top half of his newspaper.

"You must have noted the massive increase in burglaries? Particularly around South Kensington, Egham Hill and Wimbledon in the last few months – the Yard think they`re linked, with nothing taken each time."

Although John waggles his eyebrows expectantly at Sherlock, awaiting a pique of interest, none is forthcoming.

"Or, what about gang warfare? It seems to be reaching epidemic proportions – looting, car hijacking, drugs – " he puts down the paper.

" – and what _about_ my gym membership? Forty five quid to Fifty three in the last month – another example of daylight robbery."

"Hmm." Sherlock quirks a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Tell me, or I`ll tell Molly you have her best _Meiji _on the breakfast table."

"Mmm … living with Mary is definitely giving you an edge, John. Very well, it`s all about your manicure."

"My – how - ?"

"Your manicure – and I do emphasise the `_man_`, since we all seem to need a more metrosexual approach to grooming these days…"

"I am, frankly, stunned that you know such a word as `metrosexual`."

"Underestimate me at your peril, John. If I may continue – your nails are neatly manicured, buffed and all traces of prescription pad ink and rough callouses are a mere memory. You have no time (or, one supposes, inclination) to visit an _actual_ beauty parlour, so I deduce that a new service has been offered by your gym, which you attended last night, which includes grooming treatments such as this. More choices usually equal an increase in costs, which is passed onto the customer – in this case, yourself."

"`one supposes`? Of course I don't visit beauty parlours – "

"Am I correct, John?"

John picks up _The Times_, re-establishing the barrier between himself and his very annoying friend and ex-flatmate.

A few rustling moments pass.

"If you don't stop being smug, Sherlock, I won`t tell you what happened to Mary yesterday."

"Why would I want to know this?"

"Oh, believe me, you will."

**x0x**

St. Anne`s Shopping Centre, Islington

Yesterday

13:40 hours. Approximately sixty precious minutes before she needs to retrieve a small child (hers) from nursery. Time enough to collect John`s suit, Sherlock`s knives and still have time to be visually seduced by the verdigris satin shirt in Hobbs.

_That shirt will be the death of me,_ muses Mary Watson, to whom death has rarely been too much of a stranger during either of her chosen careers of assassin and trainee doctor.

Due to the latter and most recent commitment, Mary had so little time to herself, that a stolen hour off the clock was the equivalent to an extra fiver in your change, or three cherries lined up on the slot machine in the pub.

A prize, to be savoured.

Her husband`s suit lay, crinkly in its polythene sheath, across her arm as Mr Throckley in the cobblers (`_we also cut keys_!`) lays open the roll of various sized surgical knives and scalpels. They glint wickedly in the concealed LED lights of the cramped little shop and Mary notes the silent approval of Mr Throckley as they survey his handiwork.

"Beautiful work, Mr. T, as always."

"Beautiful tools, Mrs Watson. It was my pleasure to work with them. I know you will take care, since they are as sharp as serpent`s teeth, but I am compelled by law to warn you."

"Not mine, I`m afraid. They belong to Sherlock."

Mr Throckley nods, knowingly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. A man with a fine eye, and excellent taste. Considering the current crime explosion, I do rest slightly easier knowing he is looking out for us."

Mary smiles, rolling the knives back up into a slightly less threatening arrangement, and tying them tightly.

"He`s not a super hero, you know, Mr T. He doesn't actually wear a cape."

Mr Throckley winks and conspiratorially taps the side of his nose. _You may say that_, says the wink, _but we know better_.

Thus, ex-assassin and current doctor`s wife, Mary Watson, stands, longingly, outside the window of Hobbs. The shirt is glowing softly at her through the glass of the window. It`s siren call is building in her ears, and with twenty minutes to go before she needs to leave, her debit card has never weighed so heavy in her handbag.

Dinner at Pizza Express for three, or a sleeves worth of swanky green blouse? Dammit. Mary hated being a responsible wife and mother at times. Not today, my lovely, but one day we shall meet again.

In a second, a self-pitying reverie is rudely interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek, which cut like one of Sherlock`s knives, through the piped musak of the building.

"_My baby! MY BABY! Stop it, stop them …!"_

Running to scan the area beneath the escalator on the lower floor, Mary`s quick eyes and warrior brain assess in seconds.

A group of hoodies (_gang-like potential_) running away from a recently vacated supermarket, pushing a trolley full of stolen booze. They are high, lairy, hooting with derision and being chased by several security men (none of whom appear to be armed with anything more deadly than a night stick). Horrifically, a simple smash and grab has morphed into something much, much worse, as one, over-stimulated member of the pack in a maroon hoodie has snatched a baby buggy as his entourage passed a group of mothers, and a small child is screaming for its mother as it is carried along in a riotous sea of sportswear, marijuana and profanities.

The intention does not appear to be to hurt the child, but Mary, mother of one and killer of many, knows how these things can end, and waits no longer.

Dropping suit and bag and wrenching a large knife from the roll, she half runs, half cascades, down the slowly grinding escalator. Maroon hoodie is at the rear of the gang, but too far ahead of the guards. He is way too high to be put off by a howling infant, screaming mothers and yelling men in white shirts, but when a large knife flick-flacks, centimetres from his face, in a hiss of displaced air, and pins his hood to a pillar, he falters. And, as his legs are taken from beneath him by a hitherto unseen, tiny, blonde tornado in a purple raincoat, it filters through that the fun is over for the day.

As the guards lumber towards them, Mary pulls the knife adeptly from the wall and takes in her co-rescuer as purple raincoat girl frees the screaming baby from its buggy. Through the screams of the baby, shouts of the men and howling of their captor (whom they both have one foot pushing down on), Mary is able to see short, wild peroxide hair, in a dandelion-like corolla around a small pale face.

"Well played – that was excellent timing."

The bright blue_, amazingly familiar_ eyes seek out hers, and pass her the sobbing child.

"My pleasure. Most excellent knife work – commendable."

Mary presses her foot a little harder on hoodie, who is writhing and swearing a little too loudly for her liking.

She grins, rocking the baby, attempting to soothe.

"You, here … this isn't a co-incidence, is it?" observes Mary Watson.

The blue-eyed dandelion girl picks up her bag to leave before any official questioner might reach her.

"Is the universe ever that lazy?" she whispers, in her Scandinavian lilt.

And she is gone.

**x0x**

* * *

><p><strong>Hello! <strong>

**... and we`re BACK!**

**I know, manicure for army boy John Watson? Hey, he`s just trying something new; nothing wrong with being in touch with your feminine side. Has a new job too, so out to impress.**

**Blue-eyed dandelion girl? More soon, but her identity is linked to two previous stories, `Emails from Uppsala` and `When Sherlock Met the Other One.`**

**More soon - would love to hear from you. :)**


	2. Showcase

"I do hope you appreciate my indulgence of your bespoke infatuation with this place, Sherlock. My office would have been much more – convenient."

Mycroft`s leather soled loafers crunch resentfully along the gravel path they tread. Truth be told, Spring is busting out all over London, and the Marylebone Gardens have never looked more colourful.

Sherlock`s is a look of _unsettling glee,_ decides Mycroft Holmes. His agreement in meeting with his elder brother had brooked no negotiation regarding venue. Sherlock refused to set another foot in the Diogenes Club, unless forced at gunpoint.

It was a Tuesday, and Mycroft simply didn't have the manpower for that kind of thing.

_Pity._

Truth be told, these gardens did harbour rather fond memories for Sherlock Holmes, but he would rather face another Serbian torturer before he`d share that with his brother.

So, two Holmes boys spy a nearly empty bench, and Sherlock leans across to the sole occupant (_unemployed print worker, going for first interview in months_) and whispers:

"Your watch is fifteen minutes slow,"

and the bench is theirs entirely as he runs, frantically towards the gate.

"Sherlock, you certainly have not failed to notice the sudden upturn in our crime-rate over the past few months."

Mycroft`s hands rest casually atop his umbrella handle and he effects a stare into the middle distance. Eye contact? Not always an advantage.

"Peaks and troughs – hardly anarchy, Mycroft."

"Indeed, but the public is rattled, and that is never a good thing. I take it you have heard of the UXB situation?"

"War-time bombs being unearthed in the new building works around the embankment? Isn`t there a new World War One exhibition at the Tate Modern opening this week? All good publicity, brother of mine, but hardly criminal."

"Perhaps, but gangs looting, high profile break-ins and several rather nasty arson incidents in the Docklands give the general populous a touch of _dis-ease_ as they lie in their beds at night. The discovery of so many unexploded bombs just serves to highlight and remind people of the fragility of this great city of ours. London nearly fell in the Blitz, and the current crime situation makes it appear, Sherlock, that things are unravelling."

"This sounds like one of your political hot potatoes, Mycroft. Not really my area."

Sherlock is bored, and as a door of his mind palace closes on Mycroft`s conversation, another one opens as he spies a long, silken hair, belonging to Molly Hooper, wrapped around the sleeve of his coat. He recalls smoothing his hand along her hair as he left Baker Street; the glow of light through the kitchen window casting a sheen across its loose cascade, before she`d had the chance to tie it up. It`s smooth curtain covered one eye as she bent to pick up Ben and looked up at him, tucking the other shank of it behind an ear.

Heart-stopping.

_And beauty draws us with a single hair._

_`Come here – ` _he breathed in the strawberry scent of her_ – `I want to revel in your perfection…`_

"Oh, for goodness sake, Sherlock, could you please focus for more than a few moments? And shall I take Dr Hooper`s hair from your coat sleeve? You seem to be distracted by it."

Rude. Sherlock turns to his brother.

"Yes, and when you have finished grooming me, dear brother, perhaps you can explain when it was you involved our little sister in your `_London in Terror` campaign_? Apparently, she`s started work already."

**X**

_Operation Last Bastion_, it seemed, was the pre-election government`s PR infused attempt to give the country, via its capital city, their confidence back. Too many ugly and petty crimes had accumulated in a slowly moving, but momentum gathering force, like a dirty, great glacier, edging towards a glut of mass hysteria and knee-jerk voting.

A think tank had been appointed. Great diplomacy was required. Mycroft Holmes was essential.

And so, in part, was his little, less compliant brother.

People in Britain needed to see its forces for good battling to keep it safe. The police, the fire brigade, the armed forces, the Health Services, and more private and individual safeguarders, such as security firms, locksmiths, and even, private consulting detectives…

"It`s a bloody fly-on-the wall documentary, isn't it? They`re going to follow everyone around, and prove how lucky we all are to be so well protected."

John Watson is bright eyed and bushy tailed that evening, despite a long shift looking at diseased body parts. His new Mayfair practice meant they were rich people`s diseased body parts, but a boil was a boil, on any backside.

Molly flashes him a warning look over the top of Sherlock`s head, but it is too late.

Sherlock is now standing, holding his son (who is looking unbelievably adorable in his blue school uniform). His thunderous expression is in startling contrast to the unbridled delight on the face of Benedict after a day at his new school.

"Appalling, John. Mycroft has gone too far. Imagine the purity and science of my deductive processes lampooned and scrutinised by a slobbering and scurrilous public in front of their takeaways of an evening? The precision and beauty involved in unlocking the most intricate of puzzles will be polluted and intoxicated by puerile voice-overs and over-exposed newspaper columns…"

"Not keen then?"

A steely blue glare shoots his way.

"I have no interest in becoming the latest _Reality TV Star_. Imagine the imposition – the lack of privacy, the invasion of … _Skylab_!" A look of genuine horror on the face of Sherlock Holmes almost makes John feel sorry for him. Almost.

"We don't mind, Sherlock. Being in on it – being part of it. Mary is quite keen actually…"

A hitherto unheard snarl escapes Sherlock, causing his son to look at him sharply.

"Daddy, you are a _dragon!_"

John laughs.

"You certainly are! Come on, Sherlock, it would only involve four or five days filming; it would showcase your methods, not dilute them, since Mycroft has some editorial control; plus, you would _own _him, since he would be in debt to you for quite some time – "

Sherlock has interrupted his diatribe momentarily to actually listen.

"It could be a high quality advertisement for you too. This is a government approved, non-profit making venture. You are up there with all the official peacekeepers of the country – "

" – and a high number of Scotland Yard idiots too, no doubt."

"Ah, imagine the sharp divergence between you and them – they do make you look pretty good, Sherlock."

Sherlock is now recalibrating his thinking, and Molly is in awe in the handling methods of John Hamish Watson. Years of practise, she surmises.

Then John Watson, _Consulting Detective Wrangler_, brings out his trump card.

"And Mycroft has mentioned to me that Seiga is interested in being a part of it – to work alongside you; get to know you."

Sherlock Holmes has the grace to smile a little at his own expense – a little bit _very good_.

"You had me at `_showcase_`," he says.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

**`Beauty draws us with a single hair.` Alexander Pope (Rape of the Lock)**

**Marylebone Gardens - first mentioned in `The Science of Attraction` - where Sherlock first realises he loves Molly**

**Arcoiris: thank you for review - lovely! Hope you`re feeling better today. :)**

**Guest: Great to be back!**


	3. Camera, lights, action!

In retrospect, John supposes that things started off pretty well.

The film crew was positively skeletal, which quite undermined the `government funded` aspect as being a positive one. A short, stubby woman with grey dreadlocks, cradled in a stripy bandanna, seemed to act as director for everything – photography; lighting; production design – as well as production managing.

"Do call me Lizzie," she breathed, looking up at Sherlock, and shaking his hand. One of her front teeth displayed an embedded ruby; at least John _thought_ it was, since he`d made a similar observation in the past, only for the person to remove a stray pomegranate seed from their dentistry.

Lizzie was accompanied by kind of Gaffer, armed with a pretty basic set of lights, and a camera operator, who had the combined tasks of focus puller, clapper loader and Grip to manage at the same time.

The sound recordist looked less than pleased when he noted the cramped confines of Baker Street`s fairly well cluttered spaces.

"S`gonna be a nightmare keeping the Boom outa shot in here," he grumbled.

There were no sign of any hair and make-up people, which disappointed Mary when she arrived – `_ready for my close-up_!`

"I just want it to be REAL," explained Lizzie, mainlining espresso shots from a suspicious looking flask.

"Warts `n all; bare bones of life in 221B – the _hub_, where the fabulous mind of the Great Sherlock Holmes develops those amazing theories to solve crimes … JOHANN! Get in here with those lights, lickety-spit, will you!? I want some mood lighting for these amazing cheekbones!"

John also makes a mental note to try and not catch Mary`s eye when Lizzie is speaking. _Ever_.

She bundles herself out of the sitting room to find the ubiquitous Johann, leaving John sat in his chair (as instructed) and Sherlock at his microscope (same).

"We-ell …" John steals a glance at his friend.

Sherlock remains facially impassive, bar the flutter of a glance under his eyelashes.

"She owns thirteen cats, John."

"No!"

"Yes. And a ferret. Maybe two ferrets. And she grows marijuana on her allotment in Bromley. This appears far from professional …"

"It`s going to be fine, honestly. Just do your – _thing_ – as you normally do, and they`ll film it. No pesky scripts or overt directing – that was Mycroft`s promise."

"John, you are so clever with me, but you really must stop believing in Mycroft`s promises."

"Oh, come on …"

"Mrs Hudson is currently serving tea to the `film crew` wearing a badge that says, `_Sherlock is my Holmes-boy_` - I deduce the evil work of my brother. No matter how serious the endeavour, he will use it to score points, tease, or bring me down a peg – John, I beseech you to stop giggling!"

**X**

"And … action!"

Amazingly, despite the presence of four additional strangers in Baker Street, Sherlock appears to be natural in front of the camera. He turns to Mrs Alice Cunningham, grieving mother and new client, as professionally as he ever would have done.

"Please, Mrs Cunningham, state your case and we shall do whatever we can to help you – providing you are not boring."

A little editing was, perhaps, going to be necessary.

Alice Cunningham dabs her eyes and reaches into her handbag for a battered looking airmail letter, which she hands to Sherlock.

"This was the last thing he sent me," she sniffs.

It appeared that Mrs Cunningham`s son, an entomology student from Imperial College, London, had, some seven years ago, disappeared whilst on an expedition to the Guiana Shield in Suriname, South America. Guiana Shield contains over 25% of the world`s most pristine and untouched rainforest – retaining 95% of its forest cover, and perfect for the study of flora and fauna. Alec Cunningham was hoping to gain his PhD from his study, but instead, had walked out into the night, leaving his clothes, books, and all belongings behind. She had never heard from him again, and the authorities had recently closed the case, pronouncing him dead.

"His last letter was so hopeful and happy, Mr Holmes," comments Alice Cunningham, watching Sherlock`s clear eyes closely peruse the letter and its contents. "There have been sightings too – many sightings of him in the last seven years … I just can`t believe he`s dead."

Sherlock is now sniffing the letter, particularly the gummed fold and the ink. Without speaking, stands, steps over to the microscope (no longer just a prop) and has a few moments scraping, pipetting and scrutinising at very close quarters. No-one speaks, and John suspects a further bit of editing may be required at this juncture. He, himself, attempts to assuage their client a little.

"Seven years is such a long time, Mrs Cunningham; perhaps you should try to accept – "

"I did – I would have, but for all the times people tell me they've spotted him. All over the world, Dr Watson – I have a special Facebook page for people to post any sightings. There was never a body found, either."

"The jungle is such a big place, Mrs Cunningham – a body might never be found – " John looks over her shoulder. Sherlock has left the microscope and is now on Google.

"Thirty seven sightings of my Alec, Doctor. Thirty seven! I know he`s not dead."

"He might well be."

"He isn`t."

"He really, probably is … "

"Nope."

John, Alice and the whole film crew`s heads spin around to face Sherlock Holmes, who is sitting at his laptop, holding the letter.

"When did you receive this letter, Mrs Cunningham?"

Thinking…

"It was just after my birthday – the 15th of April – I remember."

"He disappeared five weeks previously to that, however."

"It would have taken a while to reach me, from the depths of the jungle!"

"No. I`ve checked. The Guiana Shield is so well populated by visiting scientists that, since 1993, a daily postal service has existed within a mile or two of Alec`s last camp. Letters flew in and out several times a day, in the days before a booster aerial allowed Wi-fi just last year. Your son`s letter was posted weeks _after_ he left camp, of his own volition and with forward planning. I have seen Alec`s prior letters on your Facebook page, Mrs Cunningham. They all had been written _in_ camp – the indentation of ink pen writing on a soft surface, and effects of humidity on the paper were very clear. This last letter has a hard indentation of nib, from writing on a much harder surface, and a paper untroubled by a jungle climate. He wrote this, weeks after he left camp, as final proof to you that he was happy at the time, and hinting at some kind of mysterious abduction."

Mrs Cunningham`s isn't the only mouth that is slightly open, but she is the only one who then speaks:

"But – why? Why would he fake his own death?"

Sherlock sits back in his chair, dropping the letter on the table, since it no longer held any interest for him.

"Mmm…not quite sure yet, but I`m leaning towards debt. His bank account (now public domain) shows the pattern of a sporadic, yet tenacious gambler. I would wager, myself, that he sold quite a few of his personal possessions before leaving for the jungle."

"Well, he didn't really need his car anymore – "

"Creditors too, I think, chasing his tail."

And there is an uneasy silence, as a slightly unwelcome truth filters down to Mrs Cunningham.

"So, to sum up," continues Sherlock, relentlessly, "in debt, hiding from creditors, ran away on purpose, using fake abduction or jungle disappearance to cover his tracks. Shame he couldn't resist that final letter to his mother. _Sentiment_ – gets them every time."

He looks around, at the silent room.

"And – so … good news – not dead!"

And Sherlock Holmes, _Last Bastion_, sits back in his chair, a job well done, as Lizzie shouts:

"CUT!"

And so ended Day One.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Apparently, Bromley is known for its allotments, but I wouldn't be insinuating anyone there grows the same crops as Lizzie.**

**Sadly, I DO have a sweatshirt with the same inscription as Mrs Hudson`s badge :)**

**Arcoiris: Seiga is back (she sent Sherlock her yellow ribbon to show her loyalties lay with him and Mycroft) and she is working (partly) for Mycroft as the need arises. She`s got a bunch of stuff to deal with regarding Greg, though - watch this space ... :)**

**Thank you, lovely guests, for your reviewing :)**


	4. The Assistant Editors Cut

Mary is eating banana bread and smirking through her mouthful as her husband recounts the day`s events.

"… and so he solved it, there and then? In one, fell swoop?"

"God, yes! The poor client left in a daze – totally shell shocked, even though Sherlock assured her Alec would be back in touch, eventually – when the money ran out again."

Mary wiped the crumbs from her fingers and took a sip of coffee.

"For a reluctant reality star, Sherlock seems to be quite the _showman_ – "

"And that`s a shocker _because_ ...?"

She slaps his arm, good-humouredly.

"I know! He loves it; secretly loves _Being Sherlock Holmes_ – now appearing on film! What else did they shoot today?"

"_Shoot_? Really?"

"Hey, I`m down with the crew now, John. Phil let me hold the Boom yesterday. That, husband, is a true sign of trust for a soundman."

"Hilarious. Actually, they `shot` some generic walking around the flat, and up and down the stairs footage that could be spliced in wherever they see fit. They would have got more, but the light was fading and Lizzie had to get back to water her allotment."

Mary put down her cup and smiled.

"I would love to be the editor of this little show reel, I can tell you," she says.

**X**

Mycroft Holmes flinches slightly as he lifts the receiver of his desk telephone, preparing for the assault on his auditory nerves. Sure enough, the shrillness ensures the line between his brows is well on the way to becoming a groove.

" – yes – yes … If I could just interject here, Ms Carling – yes … yes … I understand _that_, but he was only trying … oh, I see. Well, perhaps that is a touch extravagant … yes, I am watching the footage now … Yes, I am in concurrence – please find a new assistant editor. Someone a little more _grounded_, shall we say… goodbye Ms Carling. Good luck with tomorrow`s filming."

Mycroft is sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose as Anthea enters with a small Glenlivet in a crystal glass.

"I took the liberty, sir – "

"Thank you."

"I understand today`s rushes were less than useful?"

"Their young, slightly theatrical assistant editor was a touch innovative with a selection of footage showing my brother walking around his flat. Apparently, at its _normal speed_, it is quite – mundane."

Anthea frowns. As used to Sherlock as she is, she can`t quite see how such a simple bit of filming could be –

Mycroft turns the laptop towards her, sighing again.

"Apparently, he added a soundtrack, too."

Oh.

As the first, synthesised chords of `_Sexy Boy_`, by _Air_, kick in, the screen opens with an astonishingly photogenic Sherlock walking through the sitting room of Baker Street, in _very, very_ slow motion. As he turns, the slim-fitted purple shirt he wears slowly and achingly gapes between the woefully inadequate buttons; the thin, dark fabric sculpting indecently around the musculature of his chest and the swell of his shoulder.

_(`Sexy boy-y_`)

Sherlock`s long, pale neck arches s-l-o-w-l-y back as he looks towards the kitchen, and every sinew on his throat is visible and exposed.

(`_Où sont tes héros, aux corps d'athlètes? Où sont tes idoles, mal rasées, bien habillées_`)*

The music continues its throbbing beat, as Sherlock slowly looks back towards the camera, which pans out slightly so that his hips appear to writhe and sway, undulating seductively with every step.

(`_Dans leurs yeux des dollars, Dans leurs sourires des diamants`_)

He looks down, and a lock of dark hair falls with a seductive bounce, over his pale eyes, which then, _so slowly_, look back up towards the camera in, _what could seem to be_, a vulpine gaze of desire and barely suppressed energy.

(`_Moi aussi un jour je serai beau comme un dieu - Sexy Boy … Sexy Boy…_`)

Sinewed forearms, with sleeves rolled halfway, slowly swing past the camera as Sherlock turns away, and the swell of his –

Mycroft shuts the lap top lid suddenly, and locks eyes with his trusted assistant. The slight flush on her usually serene cheek tells him all he needs to know.

"This will never see the light of day."

It is Anthea`s turn to sigh, in agreement.

"I will see to it, Sir."

And she quietly closes the door behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**Apologies for slightly gratuitous slo-mo Sherlock film action (I regret nothing!), but, seriously, if you listen to `Sexy Boy` by Air at the same time, it gives the full effect. :) #purpleshirtofsex **

**Sherlock has no idea, bless him.**

**thanks to Arcoiris and guest for lovely reviewing - love.**

*Sexy Boy, sexy boy…  
>Where are your heroes, in the athletes body ?<br>Where are your idols, unshaven, well-dressed ?  
>Sexy Boy, Sexy Boy …<br>Dollars in their eyes ,  
>In their smiles diamonds.<br>Myself, one day, I will be as beautiful as a god.  
>Sexy Boy, Sexy Boy …<br>2000 Apollo, zero defect, twenty-one.  
>This is the ideal man, masculine charm.<br>Sexy Boy, Sexy Boy…


	5. The Baker Street Edit

Filming at Baker Street continues apace, and the rushes are sent to Mycroft each evening, since he now, more than ever, has the final edit.

Anthea has always been a loyal and trusted member of Mycroft Holmes` staff. Her job requires the utmost discretion and adaptability; the willingness to drop everything at a moment`s notice, and always go the _extra mile_ for one`s employer.

However, the week of assisting with what became known as `_The Baker Street Edit_`, had been one of the most entertaining weeks of her entire time at the Diogenes Club.

It just wouldn't do to let Mycroft know that.

Day Two:

A shaky hand held camera with blinking red light follows the billowing dressing gown of Sherlock Holmes, racing barefoot down the stairs into Skylab, and rampaging around in a fair old temper. Cupboards, fridges, expensive looking equipment is slammed and rattled as it becomes clear that he is looking for something, muttering and huffing the whole time.

As the camera pulls a focus on his (rather petulant) face, a muttered question is just out of earshot, but Sherlock`s reply is loud and clear:

"My brain stem, obviously! Someone has moved my brain stem and the experiment will be ruined!" His head whips away as the he runs back upstairs, camera following close behind.

"Molly! John! Mrs Hud-sonnn!" Slam, slam, SLAM!

Little Benedict Holmes sits deep within the winged caress of his father`s arm chair, whilst his mother, Dr Hooper sits just out of shot. Her foot is visible, tapping nervously.

A mumbled question from the interviewer is answered by Ben.

"My daddy doesn't always like talking to people, because they are idiots. Uncle Mycroft says they are goldenfish."

A mutter from Molly.

"I mean, goldfish."

Another question.

"My daddy likes to talk to John, and my mummy, and sometimes Greg, too. He says people don't _think_ before they say things. He says that Sanderson at the lab is – "

Another, slightly more urgent interruption from Molly stops him. Ben looks at her, hesitantly, then back at the camera. He is quite as photogenic as his father, and has a smile that would disarm a legion.

" – and my daddy also likes to talk to Billy."

A question is muttered.

"No, silly, he`s over there, on the mantelpiece…" and the camera pans round to Sherlock`s skull, currently weighting a pile of papers and cheek by jowl with a large knife skewering another pile. When it pans back to Ben`s face, he is smiling again.

Another mutter.

"No, I don't think Billy was _really _one of daddy`s friends … but everyone else does …"

A pneumatic looking, semi-famous lingerie model and `actress` sits scowling across from two grown men. A response she would, perhaps, be more familiar with is a lascivious glance at her chest, sweaty palms rubbed on trousered thighs, and a slight stutter when taking in the sheer sex appeal and voluptuous abundance of her assets…

Unfortunately, the two grown men who are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are attempting, badly, to garner their sniggering and smirking in a most unprofessional display of schoolboy behaviour.

"I do apologise, Kandi …" Sherlock is attempting sobriety again. "I must inform you that we have never yet had such an unusual request here, at Baker Street…"

"Although some have come pretty close," adds John Watson, adding a slight hiccup for emphasis.

Kandi looks offended and disgruntled.

"I was told you have helped Royalty in the past, Mr Holmes …"

"Indeed I have, but no previous client, including Her Royal Highness, has ever had her – " he falters again, eyes watering – "breast implants stolen."

"They were my first ones – the ones that made me famous. My fans would do anything for a – memento."

"Were they – kept in a safe place?" John manages to cough out, reaching for a glass of water, and suddenly, all too aware of the red, blinking camera light.

"Yeah, in the fridge – you`re supposed to keep `em cool."

Sherlock`s eyes suddenly pop open in realisation, and he adds:

"Please don`t tell me they were stored next to the _chicken _…"

Day Three

A quaintly domestic and heart-warming scene in Baker Street …

The camera pans around slowly to take in John showing Molly how to play chess at the table; Mary is helping Mrs Hudson wind a ball of knitting wool from her outstretching hands in the arm chairs; Anderson (!) is cleaning all of Sherlock`s old slides in a soapy bowl of water in the kitchen, and Sherlock himself is stretched out, asleep, on the sofa. In only three days, everyone has quite forgotten the presence of the film crew, and is behaving as normal. Some TV execs call this `_Big Brother Syndrome_`, and it can lead to some interesting television.

Watching this particular section that evening, Mycroft allows himself a tiny sigh of relief that some footage might actually be of use in showing Sherlock in his best light – a well-rounded individual in the midst of his family and friends…

But then –

A trample of small, lightweight feet are heard on the stairs that lead up to Molly`s flat in 221A, and the camera swivels quickly from Sherlock`s sleeping form to the door. Within a second, it is violently thrown open, slamming against the wall and causing the headphones to fall with a thud from the cow skull hanging there. Everyone barely has time to see or react to what is happening until, a nanosecond later, two children`s voices ring out with alarming and galvanising clarity:

"_VATICAN CAMEOS!"_

The chess board flies from the table as John and Molly fall beneath it; Mary leaps across to both shelter and protect Mrs Hudson as they both crouch behind their chairs; a tidal wave of soapy water splashes over Anderson as he slams down amongst the kitchen units and Sherlock sits bolt upright from his prone position, then falls, face down from the sofa onto the floor in a tangle of long legs and red dressing gown.

And in the doorway stand Sholto Watson and Benedict Holmes, clutching each other, doubled over with laughter and pointing at their _pet adults_.

"Told you they`d do it again," grins Sholto, moments before they are both legging it up the stairs, followed by several of their parents.

Back in the Diogenes Club, Mycroft has his head in his hands.

Again.

Sherlock appears to be preparing to meet a client. He is filmed changing out of his dressing gown and putting on his black jacket over a dazzling white shirt. He stands in his bedroom, appearing to think for a moment. Perhaps he is contemplating the solution to the problem his client has presented to him on his website? Maybe he has already put wheels into motion regarding a trip to the countryside to investigate some unusual behaviour on their behalf? Sherlock`s brow crinkles further as he sheds his jacket and rolls up the left sleeve on his pristine shirt. Out of his bedside draw, he takes out not one, or two, but three nicotine patches and slaps them firmly onto his forearm. Rolling down his sleeve and replacing his jacket, Sherlock Holmes checks out his reflection in his bedroom mirror. Noticing a frown still hovering across his pale face, he widens his eyes, then gives the mirror a sudden an alarming grin which he retains as he walks out into the sitting room to where an older, silver haired couple are patiently waiting.

They both stand as he walks in, and smile widely at his approach.

The smile is still in place as Sherlock gestures to the sofa and nods that they sit down. The woman ignores his gesture and, instead, walks towards the world`s only consulting detective and wraps her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

"Sherlock, darling, it`s been an age! Daddy and I are so excited about the filming! When are they starting? Is little Seiga here yet? I am dying to – "

And Sherlock stands, stiff and smiling oddly, as he ineffectually pats his mother`s shoulder.

And the little red recording light blinks on.

Day Four

Martha Hudson is sitting at her kitchen table in her basement flat. Although she looks nervous, she is wearing her best purple dress and has recently had her hair done. Carefully applied (and infrequently worn) lipstick highlights her apprehensive smile as she fiddles with her rings under the table. Her interviewer is off-camera and her questions will be sound edited in later.

"Oh, Sherlock has always been such a wonderful tenant! Wonderful! No problems at all."

A mumbled question, off camera.

"Well, the _odd_ incident, but nothing serious. Indoor shooting always sounds louder when you`re really close up – I`m sure the neighbours never heard a thing! And, well, the bits and pieces in the kitchen have been almost _unheard of_ since he got his new laboratory down here … sorry? Oh, you know – little bits Molly brings him from the morgue – _thumbs_, the one time; then there was that head (she appears to shiver a tiny bit) – ooh, well I didn't go to the butchers for a while after that, but still – Sherlock tends to keep them down here in the basement now…much better."

Martha takes a little sip of tea from the bone china cup and saucer as the next question is asked.

She nods.

"Oh, yes, we`ve known each other for ages, years … you see dear, I was one of Sherlock`s first clients … yes, yes, I had a bit of a problem and Sherlock made sure he got the death penalty … oh, no dear! He was a _very bad man_ at the end – well, for most of our marriage really … no, no, I didn't really expect it to last dear – that`s what happens when you only get married because of _the lust_ – sex has to answer for most of the problems in this world, let me tell you. More than half of Sherlock`s cases are crimes of passion – the twinkle in the eye, the arsenic in the soup…"

More mumbling off-camera.

"Oh, I remember the day he first brought John home, yes! They seemed to hit it off so quickly, I thought they`d been friends for years. I couldn't believe it when it turned out they`d only met that day! I thought they were together, actually – you know _(whispering_) a couple! It takes all sorts; you must know, dear, being in television … I told John, I said, `Mrs Turner next door has married ones…!` (_shrugging)_ then he turns up with a baby and Molly and – well – just goes to show, doesn't it? Mind you, he kept little Ben a secret for quite a while – I was beside myself when John came round and I had to pretend it was a _dog_ crying upstairs! Can you imagine? Only Sherlock could pretend his baby was a _Chihuahua!_"*

Another question.

"Molly? Yes, she is really a lovely girl – a doctor too, you know. She`s been very good for him, I think… I only ever hear him laugh properly with Molly or John. I often hear them (not John!) in the bath of an evening, arguing over who`s research is best, or what so-and-so died of and how it couldn't possibly have been such-and-such… oh, and the _betting _that goes on – "

Mumble, mumble.

"Yes, Sherlock and Molly – I hear them all the time – _true or false_ bets about silly little facts and fancies … ooh, let me think, I`m not as sharp at remembering as I used to – oh, yes - `_it takes a snail 115 days to travel a mile – true or false?`_ Molly got Sherlock with that one last week – no-one is allowed to interweb it, you see. No checking up on _Gabble_, or bets are off… oh, yes, another one - `_a crocodile can`t stick its tongue out – true or false?`_… oh, I`m sorry dear, I never got the answers – you`ll have to check on _Gabble_ yourself."

A mumbling interviewer (Lizzie, in actual fact) attempts to draw the interview to a close, but –

"You`re packing up now, dear? But I haven`t told you much at all yet! What about that time Captain Thorneycroft came to stay when he was being blackmailed? That was a lovely Christmas. I`ll never understand where they got those horses from though – "*

Hand-held cam, travelling down the back stairs towards the door to Mrs Hudson`s back yard. Seemingly, no-one is home – the rooms of221B have been cam-explored and found to be vacant – so what are the sounds, dimly heard, from the yard? Intruders? What security measures are in place in Baker Street? Would any criminal in his right mind break into the home of a world famous criminologist?

A rumble of laughter can now be picked up by the mic – maybe burglars were getting more arrogant these days …

Seamus, the camera man, reaches out a hand and gently pushes open the back door as he prepares to commit some potential evidence to film.

" – and I`m telling YOU, that a strawberry ain`t no berry at all! Take it or leave it – the God`s honest truth!"

"Pass me that lighter and take some time to contemplate the relevance of that phrase, Wiggins, since the truth and YOU are not the most common of bed fellows."

And the camera pans pulls out slowly to take in the charming sight of Sherlock Holmes, master criminologist and wearer of Saville Row tailoring, sitting atop one of his landlady`s bins, having his cigarette lit by a less than salubrious _gentleman of the road_, who is wearing a filthy tracksuit and three days-worth of stubble across his sunken cheeks.

The latter lazily glances across to the camera, exhibiting glance of such insouciance as to be almost insolent.

"Good evening, Mr Cameraman. I hope your mum gets back from holiday soon; I know you`re missing her `ome cookin`."

He then looks back at Sherlock, who is taking a deep drag from his Benson & Hedges, before blowing it out into the evening air.

"Not bad," he notes, then, "and I would appreciate this section hitting the cutting room floor, Seamus. Molly doesn't like to see me smoking."

He waves a few fingers at the camera and smiles, wickedly.

"Toodle-oo, Mycroft … happy editing!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

*** Mrs Hudson is referring to what happened in my story "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Quiet Time" and having Captain Thorneycroft to stay in "When Sherlock Met the Other One".**

**Oh, Sherlock, you really shouldn't bait Mycroft - it never pays to hold a candle to the devil ... ;)**

**Arcoiris: I know! Shameless editing - not sure which way Molly would go if she saw it! Depends who was there ... I feel we haven't heard the last of that clip ...**


	6. One more deduction than I was expecting

**A/N: Seiga is Sherlock and Mycroft`s Swedish half sister, first introduced in `Emails from Uppsala` and `When Sherlock Met the Other** **One`. In the latter story, she had a relationship with Greg Lestrade, which everyone has, so far, hidden from Sherlock...**

* * *

><p><span>Day Five<span>

The cameras are rolling and Sherlock Holmes is standing, and he is smiling.

"Lillasyster, det är verkligen helt underbart att se dig igen."*

Closed in shot, then cut away, as he embraces a delicate, pale faced and blue eyed girl, who has a startling peroxide bob, only slightly tamed by product.

"Sherlock ... Little brother!" Close up on her smiling face. There is no doubt, despite the hair, that they are related.

"You came back. How very sensible of you."

"I had to. I have been reading Dr Watson`s blog, and you have been making some very elementary errors, my friend." But she continues to smile and they step apart to look at each other.

"You look good ... mycket vackrare än förra gången!"* adds the blonde girl.

"And you – " The camera follows Sherlock`s aquamarine glance to her hair. " – glowing ... one might almost say, _phosphorescent._"

Wide angle shot to pouring of tea, heart-felt landlady greetings, and more hugging. Definitely an air of `_Little House on the Prairie_` at Baker Street. Long lost sister returns and everyone is delighted.

Camera tracks the arrival of John and Mary with `best behaviour` Sholto in tow, and even Wiggins pops up the back stairs to say hello to Sherlock`s Swedish half sister. A happy buzz in conversation, punctuated with embraces from John ("_remember sliding down from that bloody glass roof?")_ and Mary _("only someone trained in Black Ops could rugby tackle like that!"_) and a close up of a celebratory chocolate cake as Mrs Hudson brings it ceremoniously through the door.

"Doggy bag for my brother?" announces Sherlock, breaking through `the fourth wall` as he stares, eyebrows raised quizzically, into the camera lens.

Snatches of conversation can be picked up as Seamus and Phil discreetly track around the room.

" – meeting with Miriam and Vernet tonight – so nervous – "

" – he definitely favours Mary`s characteristics – "

" – do you have a boyfriend, Seiga, dear? Or a girlfriend –"

" – amazing how a life or death situation can bond you – "

" – do you know that duelling is legal in Paragquay, so long as both parties are blood donors – "

" – is our brother still a pain in the arse to work for - ?"

The camera just happens to be focused on Sherlock`s face, speaking to Seiga, when the door opens. He stops talking immediately and his features seem to soften as he looks towards it.

The camera pans across to Molly Hooper, leading a shy-looking Benedict by the hand. She is smiling and wearing a green silk dress with a long, chunky knit cardigan over it. Slim ankles are on view, for a change, and show-cased by a delicate pair of burnished gold strappy high-heels. Her ears glint with a gleam of emerald, her cheeks are pink and her hair loose and rippling about her shoulders.

She is beautiful.

Seamus pulls focus to her face and it fills the frame – just _glowing _...

"Molly, dear," Mrs Hudson steps forward with a cup of tea. "How pretty you look! Come and meet Seiga – she`s so like our Sherlock ..."

Molly nods and smiles at everyone, but her eyes greet Sherlock`s in a silent _`hello`_, and Phil is cursing the limitations of the boom as Sherlock pulls her close to whisper something in her ear. Seamus is slightly more successful in picking up the subsequent deepening of the colour in her cheeks when she hears it.

Close focus on Sherlock, Seiga and Molly ...

"We`ve already met, Mrs Hudson, when I was in Uppsala. Seiga was kind of – er – looking out for me over there before Ben was born."

"Oh, godhet mig! I was so `the serious one` then! So good to see you again `Doctor Hooper`. Stig sends his love."

Sherlock says nothing, he is just looking at Molly.

"And this is _he_ – the baby who is now – oh my goodness – how big you are, Benedict!"

"I am one hundred and nine centimetres tall. That is about forty three inches."

"Taller than the average," smiles Molly.

"Thank you for looking after us," adds Benedict, looking at his mother and remembering, before turning to Seiga.

"Oh, you are most welcome, vacker pojke*, very well said." She kneels down, cake and tea cup in hand to get eye level with him.

"And you must be so excited, too, with your new baby brother or sister on the way."

And the sudden and complete silence that drops into the room like a blanket of snow alerts the crew to draw back and capture this moment.

As Seiga slowly stands, in bewilderment, she picks up a miniscule nod from her brother and downcast eyes from Molly. The camera pans around slowly to capture a selection of expressions, ranging from shock to indignant anger, and everything in between.

"Oh, goodness," breezes Molly, ruffling Ben`s curly hair and straightening her green dress. "There never seems to be an _entirely_ right time for announcements like this does there?" She gives an awkward smile – she`s had years of practise at them.

Never underestimate the powers of deduction with a member of the Holmes family.

A sudden heavy, yet sprightly footfall on the stair takes a little attention from the heavily charged scene –

Momentarily ...

"Sorry I`m late everyone, bloody meeting with the Commissioner ran on for ages. Mycroft said there was a special bit of filming you wanted me here for – oh, God – "

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade has entered the room – truth be told, without any consideration for any filming that might have been happening – and comes face to face with a girl he used to know ...

"Sar - ... Seiga?"

"Greg."

"I guess we won`t be needing to watch EastEnders for a bit of extra drama tonight," sighs John Watson, just in range of Phil`s boom, and watching the unfolding look of realisation on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

***Lillasyster, det är verkligen helt underbart att se dig igen - little sister, it is really quite wonderful to see you again.**

**mycket vackrare än förra gången - much more handsome than last time!**

**vacker pojke - lovely boy**

**Arcoiris - you are quite right, they haven`t yet met face to face - I think that`s happening very soon though.**


	7. The New Normal

"HOW much actual footage?"

"Useable stuff?"

"Yes."

"From five days` worth of filming?"

"God, YES!"

A pause.

"Do you want the truth, or something beautiful?"

Gritted teeth.

"The truth would be simply lovely, thanks."

"Four minutes, thirteen seconds."

John and Mary look at each other in similar expressions of pained embarrassment.

"I should have asked for something beautiful," sighs Mary, picking up one Sholto`s improvised man-traps from the hallway as they walk up to bed. It had been a very long day. "You know, I actually do feel sorry for Mycroft. He just wanted twenty minutes of `_Sleuthing Sherlock_` to tame the masses. Instead, he ended up with offended clients, _Shezza_ hanging with the homeless, Mrs Hudson`s indescretions and a whole graveyard of family secrets coming tumbling out of the cupboard. If we could have just brought on Jeremy Kyle at the end to moralise a bit, the _Baker Street Sagas_ would have been complete."

John laughs, squeezing her shoulder and marvelling at her adroit summation. Mary Morstan still rocked his world.

"It`s my fault you know... I kind of talked him into doing it. I should have known what would happen when you let a television crew loose on the mad, unbelievable, terrifying, genius man-child that is Sherlock Holmes. Every time we try to make him`_real life_` adjacent, things go awry. It does upset me, actually, that the nation can`t see, on TV, what he really is, underneath all that crazy."

Mary looks at her _pretty damn fabulous_ husband as they traipse along the landing and into the bedroom.

"And what`s that?" she softly asks.

John dips his head, part embarrassment and part avoiding another of Sholto`s traps above their door.

"Ah, Mary," he whispers into the darkness, "well, he`s – that is, he`s just ... he`s... _you know_..."

She hugged him then, and put her pale golden head on his good shoulder.

"Course I do," she said.

**X**

John sits up suddenly in bed. The clock reads 2:21 and his shoulder aches, but it wasn`t some PTSD nightmare that woke him, more a sudden realisation. Amongst the emotional debris of the past five days of filming lay the most astounding nugget of information that had his early morning brain reeling, several hours after the actual event.

Sherlock was going to be a father. For a second time.

A `_real world_` thing had happened – he was obviously in love with Molly Hooper – a fellow human being; he clearly had a physical relationship with her (_evidence, John!_) and a(nother) baby was, right this moment, preparing for its entrance into the universe (world domination an optional extra).

Maybe this was _the new normal_? Maybe there was hope, after all.

And, truth be told, was he himself not in love with a woman who`d done wet works for covert government agencies and made a top-notch loaf of banana bread on a regular basis?

_Normal _was clearly over-rated.

And he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

**X**

So, clearly pine or cedarwood would be best, and it would have to be untreated, of course. Frames for the _Super_ needed to be 41.28 x 24.28 cm, and a _Deep Super_ should really be large enough for eight to ten frames. A wire base was also required, since the wax would start to form on them. Treatment with wax would encourage the bees to start making their own.

A _Queen Excluder_? Yes – he obviously did not want her wandering into the honey to start laying eggs. An apature of that size should let the drones through for mating with the virgin queen, but not let her escape. His _Honey Super_ couldn`t be too large, either, since it would be unfeasibly heavy to lift once laden with honey.

The last thing he wanted, also, was the bees making _Ladder Combs_, so a slatted rack was needed for the baseboard to prevent this. A good, solid baseboard would prevent rodents or other such honey robbers getting in. It needed to be sturdy, and the stand, too. A puny stand would topple the whole thing if not calculated correctly. So much to think about.

Swarming had to be controlled – he couldn`t risk losing half of his colony in a single swarm. A well-lit bee smoker would obviously help with this. As long as the queens were young and prolific and the _varroa_ population was kept down by regular, bi-annual checks, the hive should stay healthy. It really was fascinating how a colony adapts to survive – living from stored food kept in the wax cells in the winter, and regulating the hive temperature when the need arose. Live, adapt, survive. A magnificent axiom to help navigate one through life.

We can all learn something from bees ...

Sherlock becomes vaguely aware of a murmur of noise at the edges of his consciousness.

_Re-focus and re-calibrate._

The sound is louder and seems to be punctuated by gaps of silence – wait ... are they words...?

"Sherlock – I don`t want to appear rude, but it`s been seven minutes and I still don`t have an answer."

Ah, _Molly._

He turns and she is sitting there, in John`s chair, holding a cup of steaming tea and tilting her head to one side – _quizzically adorable. Clearly_.

"Did you ask me something, Molly? Is that tea?"

"Yes, eight minutes ago. Since then, I have checked my Instagram and made a cup of Darjeeling. I did ask if you wanted one, but since you hadn`t answered my True or False question either, I just accepted I`d be drinking alone."

"_Waspish_ of you, Molly. What was the question?"

"A bee has four eyes – true or false? There`s a lot riding on this Sherlock. If I win this one, I get to pick the baby`s name."

High stakes indeed. Sherlock narrows his eyes. At least he now knew what had provoked the bee episode in his mind palace.

"If I am correct, I not only get to choose the baby`s name, but also get to share your tea."

Molly laughs out loud.

"Lunatic – why not ask me to make you one of your own?"

In answer, Sherlock stands, steps across, and sits on the arm of her chair, snaking his fingers over her own cup-holding ones and laying his head on her shoulder.

"Because I am drawn, like a drone, to the molecules that surround your form, Molly Hooper. I wish to lavish myself amongst the fizzing particles that serve as your aura, and cloak myself in your fragrant form."

"Lexicomane."

"Siren."

"Vocabulist."

"Distractor."

"Distractee."

"Sherlock – bees have four eyes, TRUE or FALSE?"

"Mmmm – false. They have, in fact, five eyes – three on top and two in front." His hand closes around her cup and captures it, raising it to his mouth. "Perhaps I should drink this, then scamper down to Skylab to get inspiration for baby names."

"You KNEW the answer all along, you – you AUTOCRAT!"

Sherlock laughs as he takes Molly`s Darjeeling down the stairs to 221C.

"I always felt the name `Chloride` was much under-used ... "

And she throws the Union Jack cushion after his retreating, camel-coloured back.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: "Do you want the truth, or something beautiful?" Song by Paloma Faith**

**Sherlock is SO going to get some bees sooner or later - could be a little bit not good.**

**Reviews are love(ly) - thank you so much :)**


	8. The Copper Beeches

Ten days later ...

Mary Watson bends down to level her face with Sherlock`s as he attempts to peer through his microscope. She rests her chin on her hands at his lab workbench and sighs, slightly theatrically.

When this has no immediate effect, she sighs again, more deeply and stares with an avidity that even Sherlock can`t ignore.

"Your sputum is airborne and contaminating my slides, Mary," he murmurs, without looking up.

She grins, target achieved. _Sputum_!

"It`s sexy talk like that which got you _in trouble_ again, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Enchanting. You are in my light, Mary."

She reluctantly moves away and repositions herself on an adjacent stool, ignoring the tiny sigh that escapes him, and continuing to stare.

A moment passes.

"You look tired, Sherlock."

"No."

"Yes. All crease-y and drawn. Grey around the edges, Mister."

Sherlock adjusts the focus and does not react.

Mary flips around, facing away from the bench and staring into the Skylab main fridge, elbows perched behind her.

"That filming must have really taken it out of you. All that traipsing around – acting; pouting on camera; falling off sofas ... is that a jar of tongues?!"

Nothing.

"Molly is looking knackered, too. Not surprising, in her condition. I saw her pull a double shift at Bart`s last week. Work back-log due to rennovations in the basement. She`s a trouper – never complains ..."

The clock ticks into the silence of the lab. The fridge hums and wheezes. A moment passes.

"Your workload has been ridiculous too. John was with you for two nights last Thursday and Friday – you spent hours interrog – talking to that witness at the bottle factory – he didn`t get back in till 6 a.m. Now, you`ve got all this algae (?) to analyse – "

Sherlock sits up, closes, then opens his eyes and sighs. He turns to his tormentor; his voice is as calm as death.

"Mary, myself and Molly are fine; the foetus is also, I have been assured, _fine_. Your concern for my caseload and Molly`s back-log are _beyond _touching, but why don`t we all just save some time and my sanity and you just give me the envelope?"

Wide eyed innocence is Mary`s forte, but Sherlock just holds out his hand until she shrugs and huffs over to her bag to retrieve a slim, white, expensive looking envelope.

"You saw it."

"No. I have, however, seen _this_ coming since last Sunday. At least eight indicators, including Mycroft`s guilt regarding Seiga and my mother`s obssession to play grandmother to Ben have lead to this." He slides a slim finger beneath the flap and rips it open, pulling out the contents and spreading them in a smooth movement.

As Sherlock`s slightly appalled face looks up from the brochure, he catches the excited glint in Mary`s eyes as she grins, insanely, at him.

"Yes! We all thought you needed a break – Molly and you. I do think Mycroft wants to make amends for the Greg thing, and making you film all that stuff, but I know it`s a fabulous place. When did you two last have a holiday? Nevermind, I know it`s never happened – until NOW!"

She is about to clap her hands together in glee, but Sherlock`s glare is _so_ withering, the action dies on the vine.

But still –

Sherlock looks down at the brochure again. This was worse than he had thought.

Much, much worse.

**X**

Molly Hooper is a competent and safe driver. She guides her beloved red and white Mini Cooper away from the toxic and suffocating connurbation that is London, taking the M25 towards East Sussex. In less than an hour, she comes off at Reigate, drives serenely through Horley towards the M23, where, without artifice or showmanship, she signals left towards Copthorne and then onwards towards Turner`s Hill. Turner`s Hill is the village that houses her target, her prize, her destination.

The Royal Copper Beeches House Hotel.

Although Sherlock never once opened his mouth the entire journey (owing to his constant texting to Lestrade, Mycroft, John and an algae expert from Imperial College called Horace Fineagle) his deep, calm voice guided Molly and her car to the hotel by virtue of her customised SatNav. When Sherlock bought her the car, he recorded himself to guide her, and she loved it in a way that no actual, live voice could ever inspire.

Sherlock isn`t even looking as they turn into the tree lined drive, but he seems to sense they are close, illustrated by a sullen casting of his phone onto the back seat, accompanied by a muted snarl.

"No luck then, with the case?"

"Sadly, yes. I`ve solved it."

"The wife?"

"No, the cook. Marine biologist in Dubai before working at the restaurant. Simple, really."

"Greg will be chuffed – he`s been under quite a bit of pressure over this one."

Sherlock has adopted the seating posture of a formula 1 racing driver, slumping as far down in the seat-well as possible, and folding his arms, sulkily.

"Oddly, Molly Hooper, I am not making it my business to encourage any form of gratification in Gregory Lestrade, since he has obviously been taking a number of liberties with my sister."

"Sherlock, to be fair, Greg met her before you actually did."

"Immaterial. I need to delete the whole episode, for the sake of my own sanity – and gag reflex. Furthermore, you treacherous _prison guard_, you have brought us to this place of incarceration and now I don`t even have a case to distract me."

But Molly is doing a little deleting of her own, as she ignores his petulant stroppiness and lets her eyes feast upon the astonishing, glimmering avenue of trees, curving a deep burnished red leaf canopy overhead.

"Copper Beeches," comments Sherlock, cheerlessly, as the tyres crunch rhythmically along the stannic, scarlet tunnel.

**X**

Gracious.

The Royal Copper Beeches House Hotel was _a bit of all right_.

A multi-chimneyed Jacobean red brick monolith rose imposingly from a border of box hedges and stone balustrades. Windows gleamed between weaving ivy tendrils that clung to its carapace like the tendrils of a sea creature, and immaculate lawns edged with blossoming rose bushes allowed a calm and ordered feel.

Molly is momentarily distracted from Sherlock`s muttered `_Colditz_` and `_Stalag 14_` comments by a uniformed man opening her car door. Reminding herself that a car-jacking at a place like this was more than unlikely, she allows herself, her luggage and her reluctant companion to be escorted from car to hotel reception in a seemless move, whilst some more than willing servant-type parked her car. Walking up the stone steps, gleaming pale in the fading sunlight, Molly allowed a little _luxe_ to seep into her tired bones because, _why the hell not?_

A glittering crystalline Portuguese man o` war, masquerading as a chandilier, twinkles glamorously above their heads, and warm, oaked panels are dressed with beautiful tapestries and ebony-framed eighteenth century line drawings. The reception desk itself seems carved from a giant block of black onyx; a beautiful barricade of gothic stone and wood. Huge amethyst vases of stiff stemmed purple flowers flanked the two receptionists, dwarfing them behind the desk. A crackling fire burned in a magnificent and ancient fireplace, wide enough to roast a whole ox, and glamorous looking guests were sprinkled, photogenically, around various plush settles and chairs within the huge space. A classical piece played discreetly from unseen speakers and a subdued murmur was the loudest things got.

"It`s beautiful. Very much the understated glamorous luxury vibe."

"A distinct _Diogenes_ vibe, in my opinion."

Molly should be mad at the _Incredible Sulk_, but she can only laugh (discreetly, of course).

"Honey, you just crack me up," she adds, in a whisper, which does elicit a microscopic twitch of the lips from Sherlock. He can`t help it.

They stop snickering long enough to see a short, well-groomed and bulky-shouldered man in his mid thirties, looking polite and expectant at them over the expanse of onyx.

"Good afternoon, ah – Miss Hooper, and Mr Holmes, and welcome to the Royal Copper Beeches House Hotel. We are very pleased you have chosen to be our guests, and after you have signed in, Paul will escort you to your room. A short guided tour will – "

" – not be necessary," breezes Sherlock, signing in with his unintelligible scrawl. "I saw it on YouTube, thank you all the same."

"Indeed," he laughs, perhaps a little nervously, "but I can recommend a first hand experience of our Utopia Spa and Retreat. It is unparalled anywhere else for its relaxation treatments and holistic experiences – "

Before Sherlock can make comment on the efficacy of steam rooms, saunas and people rubbing greasy substances with rocks over your body, Molly steps up, signs in and gives the poor man her best smile.

"Maybe later, Mr – "

"I am Jephro Rucastle, Head Receptionist and concierge. I should be happy to attend to any requirements you have during your stay here." He reached behind his head and handed Sherlock two key cards and a white envelope. Sherlock glances down as he did so and Molly sees his eyebrows raise slightly.

"A message left for you, Mr Holmes," added Rucastle, nodding over at a young, athletic looking porter who appears to be Paul. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Sherlock turns.

"If anyone called Lestrade or Gregson call in, pestering for my services – "

"I should mention you are unavailable?"

" – put them through immediately. I trust you have Wi-fi? Good."

And he turns on his heel, leaving the slightly bemused concierge behind him.

As they wait for the wooden-doored, creaking lift to descend, a raised voice draws their attention back towards the desk. A tall, aesthetic-looking woman of around sixty stands, stiff-backed, before poor Jephro Rucastle, and is succeeding in making him even more uncomfortable than Sherlock did.

" – had I wanted a lawn view, my dear, I would have requested a _lawn view_. I have absolutely no interest being situated above the noisy lobby, or dining room. I very much insist that a room at the back of the hotel be made ready for me before the hour has past."

"Our apologies, Lady Hunter. I was of the opinion you preferred the Ivy Wing of the hotel. The views from the front are – "

"I am sure your job description does not encourage the sharing of your _opinions_ with your guests, sir. Just ensure the room is ready by six, at the latest. I will be in the Summer Room where you will furnish me with a whisky sour and a copy of The Lancet. Good afternoon."

As the lift eventually `pings` open, Molly feels Mr Rucastle might be finding the afternoon shift slightly longer than he first anticipated.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sherlock on a `mini-break`? What fresh hell is this?**

**Sherlock bought the mini for Molly in "Driving Miss Demeanours"**

**Guest: Yes, John and Mary are just brilliant. I love them too!**

**The Royal Copper Beeches Hotel is based on a hotel in East Sussex called "The Alexander House Hotel". I DID YouTube it, and it looks amazing!**


	9. Heartworm

Molly Hooper is actually scampering.

Being the possessor of a twenty week foetus does not limit her _skittish scamper_ from the huge purple and sage bed, to the claw footed tub in the en-suite bathroom with its waterfall effect tap, to the scented candles, bowls of fragrant roses and beautiful sash windows which are letting little shafts of evening light filter into the room. One wall is a shimmering arrangement of mirrors, all different sizes and shapes, but lit in such a way that see little echoes of prismatic light flicker around the walls in the evening sun. On the wall opposite the bed is a large and beautifully handpainted frieze of a purple and green hummingbird, hovering in flight above an amaryllis flower. It is so detailed, its wings can almost be seen to be beating to stay in flight.

"Lovely," breathes Molly Hooper, once the scampering has ceased, and she is lying, widthways across the bed, with plenty of room to spare.

Sherlock is reading the contents of the white envelope, frowning lots, and then, less so, before folding it up carefully and placing it inside his jacket.

"Mycroft and his sardonic good wishes merely serve to irritate me."

"Further."

"Further?"

"Irritate you _further,_ since you have been irritated, in some part, since we turned off the M25. Shall we go back to Baker Street? I honestly don`t mind, since I prefer five minutes of _Happy Sherlock_, hovering over a bunsen burner, to a whole weekend of _Sulky Sherlock_ hovering over his mobile, hoping for it to ring with a case. C`mon – let`s call on Paul – he`ll take our cases back down in five minutes flat. We can sneak into 221B and slouch around, drinking tea, eating cake and slicing up those tongues we`ve got in the fridge. No-one ever needs to know." She gives him a horizonal grin. "I know you`re tempted, my improbable romantic – "

And suddenly, the ceiling is blocked out by a whole lot of Sherlock Holmes, as he leaps across her on the bed, planting an arm either side of her prone form.

In another moment, he has leant down to kiss her, and pretty thoroughly, too.

He stops, looks down at her sweet face and starts talking – talking really slowly ...

"And all of _that_, Molly Hooper, is why my heart is not my own around _you_ – why my thoughts are cast adrift and my mind fractured into tiny pieces and flung to the four winds. My head feels like it`s underwater, but I`m breathing just fine, and finding that every breath tastes of _you_. You are perpetually seducing me, just a little bit, Molly; sometimes just so discreetly that I barely even notice, until it all gathers force into a moment like this one, and everything fills up my head until there is no more space. _Only you_. And I`m drowning in you, and it is such an exquisite death."

She stares up at his astonishing eyes, even more so in their honesty, sincerity and slight puzzlement, as if he is trying to understand his own self. A lock of hair falls down, the heat and scent of him fills the world above her head, and Molly Hooper knows she is _ruined_, since nothing anyone ever says to her after this will ever be as heart-breakingly perfect. Sherlock`s love could be a _heartworm_, burrowing deep and, if allowed to go unchecked, killing the host. _This might kill me, _thinks Molly, blurrily_, but, God it`s worth it – every second with you is worth whatever that outcome might be._

And so they decide to stay, after all.

**X**

The Dining Room at the Copper Beeches had the white, stuccoed ceiling of a wedding cake and the carved, marble fireplace to match. Extravagant curves and flounces were balanced by parma violet walls as smooth as porcelain, and a grand piano in the corner of the room, playing Gershwin.

A perfect cohabitation.

Just as `_Rhapsody in Blue_` begins, Sherlock and Molly walk into the glittering room. Glowing candles are reflected in every shining surface, the chink of silverware against china and the occasional laugh or exclamation is heard above the general murmur. Suddenly, however, this fine and muted conversation affects a distinct lull.

Molly knew there were two possible reasons for this:

1. Sherlock Holmes, Famous Consulting Detective (even before televised documentary)

2. Sherlock Holmes, beautiful man in Saville Row evening wear

Take your pick, but she knew it wasn`t her they were looking at.

However, as Robert, their waiter for the evening, seated her with the sweetest alacrity, Molly quite enjoyed the metaphorical darts of jealous longing fired her way. She also smothered a smile, considering what most of these women (and men) would make of `_first thing in the morning without a coffee/case/violin Sherlock._` _Girls, it ain`t pretty_. All of this, however didn`t stop her dying with pride. He was rather fabulous this evening, and the best thing was, he had no inkling.

"Good lord, the reception in here is derisible. I really feel that claims of `_Hotel-wide Wi-fi_` are a gross exaggeration."

He stands up, holding the phone in the air, like an offering to the gods of internet access. Molly couldn`t help but notice heads turning as he stretches upwards, the suit moulding to the curve of his shoulder and slope of his thigh.

As he sat, an intake of breathe in the room was almost audible, and Molly had to cough into a napkin to cover her amusement.

Within four minutes, Robert has arrived with a champagne bucket at the table, containing a bottle of 1989 Krug. Sherlock looks irritated, then opens his eyes in appreciation.

"Mycroft is really pushing the boat out. This is a very excellent vintage."

"It is?"

"Oh yes. Incredible rich open nose showing honeyed, toasty, rich fruit with some peach and apricot notes. It's quite profound. The palate is rich, showing some evolution. It's bold and hauntingly complex; fantastically opulent, with a nice richness of texture."

She stares at him.

"You are making this up, _Baby boy_."

Sherlock frowns at her, but it is totally half-hearted.

"No."

"So, you are a wine expert now?"

"Mind Palace. Mycroft used to test me before he`d allow me to get drunk."

"How wicked."

"He is the Evil Overlord from the Planet_ Wicked_, so that does make sense."

They snigger, on and off, for about three minutes over this, during which time, Robert is making a great show over exhibiting, wiping and opening the Krug, and offering it to Sherlock to taste.

"Really, that is fine, I know it will be excellent – "

"Sir, I am sorry, but with a vintage such as this, the Sommelier would sack me on the spot if you were not offered the chance … Sir – "

Robert is young, dark and charmingly sweet. Even Sherlock sees this.

"Sir, there is a further request – many apologies, since I am aware you are wanting to order."

"Please – "

"The lady who sent the wine across, she has asked me to request, would you join her for coffee and brandy in the bar after dinner. She would be most grateful."

"Lady? You mean, it wasn't my brother - ?"

In reply, Robert nods over to the far corner of the room where the stiff-backed woman who had torn a strip from the Concierge was sitting, dining alone. She seemed to sense their interest and looked up, with a curt nod.

"I am not sure I know this lady, Robert."

"This is Lady Violet Hunter, Mr Holmes. She knows who _you_ are, and she really would like to speak with you." Molly recognises the uncomfortable look of `_don`t shoot the messenger_` about their waiter and she favours him with one of her brilliant smiles. (_Sherlock is working on a catalogue of Molly`s smiles and their uses, and has promised to update her when that list is complete_).

Sherlock gives Lady Violet Hunter a curt nod and turns back to Robert.

"I will meet with her, but she needs to understand, I am not here to work."

And, as Robert moves away, Molly is touched more than she can say.

"God," sighs Sherlock Holmes, picking up a menu, "I hope they do decent chips."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**What were the chances? And why is Mycroft being so nice? Hmm...**

**Guest: I am so chuffed you took a look at the hotel - it does look rather grand, doesn't it?**

**Guest: Rest and rejuvenate? With Sherlock? ;) **


	10. Lady Violet Hunter

"Mr Holmes, I think someone is following me."

I sit in the leather winged chair opposite Lady Violet Hunter and contemplate her, as I am wont to do.

Proud, patrician, educated in England and Paris (probably the Sorbonne), married twice, widowed both times. Wealthy – old money, obviously, but a woman who has made her own way in the world, by virtue of her intellect. Impressive.

"You are a scientist, Lady Hunter."

_Hands; fingernails_; _discolouration on wrist._

She nods, curtly.

"A biologist, with a special interest in biochemistry. Cheltenham Ladies College, Jesus College at Cambridge, then, numerous secondments around the world. I have lead expeditions in order to pursue my truest love – the world of insects, beetles in particular."

Hmm, a _coleopterologist_, how absolutely –

"Fascinating. I am, in fact, aware of your work. At college, I read Maria Sybilla Merian`s book, _Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium – _illuminating insight for the time it was written."

Understandably, Lady Hunter looks impressed, as I had intended her to. If a potential client is to become an _actual_ client, then trust must be won.

"I actually based one of my leading papers on the _Semollian Water Beetle_ on some of her original findings. She was, indeed, a great inspiration to me. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a woman of independent means. After the death of my second husband, I poured most of my energies into my work on insects, the beetle in particular."

"You have travelled abroad extensively, and returned, only recently – perhaps within the past two weeks."

She nods again. It is a simple enough observation of tan lines and mosquito bite scarring, but trust is emerging, I realise. Her left wrist sports a Cartier watch (vintage model, 1930`s, family heirloom) and her right, a simple silver bangle which appears out of keeping with her general ensemble and manner of dressing, so must also hold a special meaning for her. I am squinting slightly in my attempt to read the cursive inscription around it. I hope she doesn't notice.

`_Scientia imperii decus et tutamen` - Science and security govern beauty_. Interesting, and oddly familiar.

"I saw you at Reception when I was dealing with the idiot concierge, and I knew, sir, that I must meet with you. I quite understand you are here to escape and relax and I must extend my apologies to you and your wife for this impertinent interruption."

"Not married. I have, however, promised Doctor Hooper that I will try and limit my workload this weekend, but she understands my work and my needs very well, and I _need _to hear why you fear you are in danger. Be brief, but as detailed as possible. Waffling won`t help, but I do suspect that is not your forte."

She smiles. There you are – I have the trust, and I have _her_.

"I have heard much of you, Mr. Holmes, and none of it quite measures up to the real thing."

I shrug. I`ve heard it before.

"I did, indeed, arrive back from Suriname ten days ago. I am on the brink of publishing a paper which, with as little hateful hyperbole as I may muster, will probably change the world."

I do not show it, but I shiver a little inside. _Delightful._

"My paper is the result of ten years of intensive research involving the _Semollian Water Beetle_ and an enzyme found within a secretion from its glands. The road has been long, and incredibly difficult, but I know that the information I have uncovered is going to have as great an impact in the world of science as the discovery of radium – maybe even greater."

"You will, I suspect feel hyper-aware of plagiarism every moment of the day. It must appear that everyone is following you at this crucial time."

She waves me away with her hand and a moue of denial hovers about her mouth. I, once more, see the glint of the bracelet on her wrist and recall the latin – it is the motto of Imperial College London, well known for its ground-breaking scientific research. She is speaking, so I focus.

"Like you, yourself, I both see and observe. I have observed the same car parked outside my office at Imperial College no less than three times over the past week. And several times more in the weeks previous to my last expedition. I have checked the security and personnel data bases, and the registration does not belong to staff or student. It is there without permission, and yet has managed to breech our security system. Also, I have noted several burglaries around the college in recent months, all homes of colleagues of mine, with whom I sometimes lodge when I work late and don't wish to travel home alone."

I am, once more, struck by an odd familiarity. I have heard something of this before. John Watson, and his _diatribe_ about `anarchy` within the Capital. South Kensington, Egham Hill and Wimbledon. All the areas around the Campus of the University.

"Was anything taken from these break-ins?"

"A considerable mess made, but nothing missing. They are clearly searching – probably for my research."

"It could be seen that way."

"It IS that way, Mr Holmes, I am convinced of it. I must assure you, that the final draft never leaves my side."

"It is, most likely, on the USB drive around your neck."

The way she has repeatedly worried at the cord around her neck, and the outline under her shirt tells its own story. Predictably, her hand rushes up to touch it again.

"It is my _everything_, and I won`t give it up until I choose to. Publication day is next Thursday. It will be uploaded on my website simultaneous to my presentation at the college at 11 a.m. There has been quite a fuss in the press. I need you to investigate who might want this, Mr Holmes. I strongly feel that I am assured of your discretion. I have spoken with your brother. I have known him, superficially, for twenty years."

I recall the white enveloped note from Mycroft earlier in the evening, hinting that an eye should, perhaps, be kept on Lady Hunter. I hate it when he`s proved right about things.

"_Superficial_ is his forte within friendships," I cannot resist adding, and the quirk of her mouth confirms what I already know.

I like her.

"I will take your case. Do you feel safe here? I could arrange for protection…" The hand waves again. I did say _patrician._

"Ugh, an attention I would not welcome. I am perfectly safe here – one of the reasons for my visit. I am on the third floor, Room 34, and security here is excellent. I have furnished reception with strict instructions to inform me if that car is sighted."

I decide that Molly Hooper has been out of my sight for a time long enough to have become a distraction to me. I do fancy I can sense the merest hint of strawberry in the air, which is the scent I associate with her, and can never smell without a pit of longing expanding in my gut. Extremely inconvenient at times, truth be told. I stand and offer Lady Violet Hunter my hand. Her skin has the dryness of a thousand washes in laboratory disinfectant. I feel another lurch as I recall Molly`s hands are exactly the same after long nights at Bart`s. I do need to gather myself. She is a little too consuming at present.

"Lady Hunter – "

"For heaven`s sake, I have entrusted you with safeguarding my life`s work – _Violet_, please."

I tilt my head in acquiescence.

"Then, it had better be _Sherlock_. It has been my pleasure, Violet."

She nods.

"You are rather extraordinary, aren't you?" she notes, gathering her Hermes bag and reading glasses (her glass of whisky is tipped over, but she barely notices).

And I smile.

**X**

I know she`s dead as soon as Sherlock gets the door open.

Rushing into Room 34, I drop to my knees and find that a pulse has long been absent. She has been dead for around six hours.

Sherlock is checking the parameters of the room; the closed sash window, the crumpled bed clothes and the bathroom. He has a blanched, set expression on his face which tells me how upset he is inside. This was his client, and he has let her down.

He kneels next to me; next to Lady Violet Hunter, and immediately feels gently around her neck. A red weal shows some pressure has been applied with a cord, or ligature.

"Blue lips, foam around the mouth – "

"These little purple haemorrhages on the face and neck – asphyxiation."

I nod.

Sherlock is texting rapidly.

"What did they use?" I look around for any sign of a murder weapon.

"You won`t find it, Molly. She was strangled with her life`s work. They`ve taken the USB stick, after killing her with it."

And I hear the thud of heavy feet in the corridor outside.

**X**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Arcoiris - lovely observations, thank you! Sherlolly is kind of wonderful!**

**Guest: well spotted re: hummingbird! I do like a regular update (OCD? Maybe!)**


	11. Welcome to the Jungle

Despite a slight crackle, Mycroft`s voice comes across the line loud and clear.

"This is not good, Sherlock."

"Really, Mycroft? So glad you phoned to clarify."

A sigh.

"I knew this weekend away was a fragile façade for what you really wanted. Why not just _ask, _and leave Molly out of the equation?"

"A tender thought, little brother, but there was nothing to indicate an attempt would be made on Lady Hunter`s life. I was merely alerting you to the fact of her presence at The Copper Beeches. Contacting you was entirely her choice."

"Unlike being dead."

A pause.

"Yes, that was – is – very regrettable. The local Force are moderately competent and they have been instructed that you are to be given _carte blanche_ with the investigation. I will send a car for Dr Hooper and, once again, I do apologise for spoiling your weekend."

"If you don`t mind, I`d like to stop listening to you now. Good day."

"Good day, Sherlock."

**X**

"Let me see the footage again."

Ainsley Hale, security guard, rewinds again. The corridor on the third floor is displayed beautifully by a well-positioned camera. Room 314 is entered at 11.14 pm by Lady Hunter, then nothing until 9.37 the next morning, when Sherlock and Molly knocked repeatedly, then forced their way in. An early morning alarm call had been booked by Lady Hunter the previous evening for 7 a.m., alerting the staff when she didn't appear for breakfast. Sherlock had requested that any unusual activity pertaining to his new client be relayed to him immediately it happened, and Lorraine on reception had been more than accommodating.

"Could the camera have been tampered with?" Sherlock`s eyes are gimlet-like as he watches the screen.

"We have tamper-resistant alarms fitted to all cameras, sir. Our hotel has won awards for its security." He appears simultaneously proud and defensive, as well he might, supposes Sherlock. "We have had several Heads of State and minor royalty staying here; and the cast of TOWIE, one time."

"Mmm." Sherlock rewinds again. He has to be sure.

**X**

DI Richard Wynward does actually seem quite accommodating, so Sherlock does try not to be too rude and impatient. They are surveying the red brick exterior of the building beneath Violet`s room. Unlike the Garden View at the front, the Park View at the rear has no creepers or ivy climbing its walls, so a clear view of the brick work is possible.

Why anyone would need to do this, reflects Wynward, was quite the mystery to him, but he wasn't about to admit that to _Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

The latter is, at that moment, pushing his face right up against the brick in several places, looking very close with his magnifying lens. He moves rapidly in-between long moments of stillness whilst he peers intently. Wait – is he _sniffing_ the bricks? Abruptly, he turns:

"Get me a ladder," he says.

**X**

Sherlock is standing in the lobby, next to Reception, awaiting a list of cars and number plates from their database when he feels the warmth then the pressure of a hand on his collar. Turning, he sees Jephro Rucastle remove his hand and hold it out to show…

… a live ladybird.

"These _coccinelli`_s get everywhere at this time of year. So excellent for our flowers, Mr Holmes. They keep the _phytos_ away from the roses."

He holds out his hand until it flies away.

"Thank you," murmurs Sherlock.

**X**

"She was a wealthy lady. An heiress to a large fortune."

Wynyard is looking at Sherlock, expecting some response to his observation.

He waits.

"Surely, this was the motive? A kidnapping that went awry?"

Still nothing.

Wynyard loses patience, and snaps shut his notebook. "Then, maybe you could suggest – "

Sherlock turns to him, slowly, as if taking him in for the first time.

"Where is the killer? Where is he now?" he demands.

"Absconded. Miles away, I would imagine. When he accidentally killed her, he lost his nerve and skedaddled."

"How is it even possible that you are worse than Lestrade? All the cars in the car park have been accounted for. No new cars arrived after eleven last night; none left this morning. The hotel is fifteen miles from the nearest bus or railway station. No footprints were found in dew of the lawn this morning – I checked. CCTV shows no-one entering Lady Hunter`s room after she did. You need to work out, Wynyard, how they got in. Once you have that, you have your killer."

"Do you have an idea – ?"

"I have six ideas."

Wynyard cocks a `_care to share_?` eyebrow.

"Soon," says Sherlock grimly.

**X**

Molly Hooper wakes from a dreamless sleep, but her heart is pounding and her brow feels clammy. She turns her head to the left.

Sherlock is gone.

Bare of feet, Molly tiptoes down the stairs in the silence of the hotel. The smell of chlorine is stronger here, and the subterranean pool area of the Utopia Spa is obviously near. She has trodden silently past treatment rooms, tinkling fountains, rows of dark leather reclining beds, topped by plump, purple cushions. A huge, silver metallic statue of a smiling Buddha sits amongst a sea of shiny pebbles, holding his hand aloft in a serene `hello`.

Molly feels only slightly ridiculous as she lifts her hand right back at him in a silent salute.

_Where is Sherlock, O Enlightened One? I need to find him, since I don't like the feel of this silence…_

A sudden yelp and a crash fills the night, and Molly wonders, for a split second, about the power of prayer, then –

Running, adrenaline, heart thrumming in her ears … Romanesque columns rising as she descends another set of stone steps –

A long, scraping screech, like nails on a blackboard, then a splash – _something in the water_ –

Down the stairs … flickering reflections of light licking the curved, stone ceilings; she was entering a dream-like room, with steam rising from pools of different sizes and arrangements of tropical, shiny-leafed plants and large, red hibiscus flowers …

… _welcome to the jungle, baby – _

Molly reaches the foot of the staircase, just in time to see the father of her child (_children!_) fly across the mosaicked floor and crash into a wall bearing the fresco of a tiny black cat sitting at the top of a flight of Roman steps. Towels are scattered everywhere and an upturned recliner floats in the pool.

Sherlock is clearly winded, but gets up anyway, since his assailant is bearing down on him, showing an intent she didn't even want to think about. His short stature had little to do with the strength stored within the broad and powerful shoulders and hard, knotted arms. The last time Molly had seen him, he had been smart, courteous and dressed in a dark purple jacket and tie, with his golden name badge proudly displayed.

_Jephro Rucastle – Concierge, Receptionist, Killer._

Sherlock is up on his feet, a steadying hand on the wall, and a struggle to get air into his lungs. It is more eerie that neither of them speak, as Rucastle reaches him, and throws a powerful punch. Fortunately, Sherlock`s innate ability to see how people telegraph their moves before making them, allows him time to turn away at the last moment, sending Rucastle off balance and staggering forwards.

It is then that Sherlock sees _her._

The look in his eyes is a terrifying mixture of pain, exhilaration, desperation and fear – fear for her. Before she drops down, behind a pillar to camouflage herself, Molly sees his eyes flicker, oh so briefly, towards the left of where she is, then he turns back towards yet another creature who wants to end him.

Molly looks over to where his glance had fallen, and sees it – _a tap_. A tap attached to a very long, coiled hose pipe. A vague memory flicks across her brain and she crawls, crab-like towards it, grabbing the tap and turning it, very fully, ON. The hiss of escaping water is hidden by the bangs, crashes and grunts of exertion coming from the far end of the pool. She can, from her pillar, see that Sherlock has done some damage to the bright, helpful eyes and smiling mouth of the Concierge, and blood pours down the man`s chin, dripping onto his purple tie and white shirt.

The hissing hose, like a giant anaconda, begins to unravel via the power of the water within, and Molly now fully recalls `_The Spartan Regime_`, a hideous, masochistic `treatment` offered by the _Utopia Spa and Retreat_. Faithful to the days of the Ancient Greeks, the package included repeated dousing in ice cold water; salt scrubs which virtually flayed the skin from your body; sports massages performed by shaven gorillas, and the grand finale of a savage hosing down with a power hose – quite reminiscent of the excruciating regime of Guantanamo Bay, and other such places of torture.

Sherlock knows what she has done, and has succeeded in loosening the vice-like grip of Rucastle`s arms from around his ribs. The way he is moving tells Molly that at least one of them is broken. Sherlock is backing away, towards the coiled hose, as his assailant crouches, on all fours, readying himself to attack again. For the first time, Sherlock speaks, and his voice is ragged, but harsh:

"You fight extremely well, for a dead man, Mr Cunningham."

This has the effect of startling Rucastle, and Molly can see him hesitate slightly and almost hear the whirring of his brain cogs, trying to work it out. This pause is all Sherlock Holmes needs. He turns, grabs the neck of the hose, which is beginning to writhe and toss itself about, much in the manner of a giant jungle snake. The water, freed from its curled restraints, fattens up the hose to its maximum diameter, and the pressure is enormous.

"I assured your mother you`d be back eventually, and here you are. I do so love it when I`m right – "

Whereupon the final word, he opens the valve, and a hard, white explosive gush of water erupts from the nozzle, causing Sherlock to stagger to steady himself as the other man is thrown against the opposite wall with the force of a giant trebuchet, firing on the enemy.

And _Jephro Rucastle_, previously known as _Alec Cunningham_, and who-knows-who in between, is pinned to that wall like a beetle in a glass case.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**TOWIE - reality show `The Only Way is Essex` populated by airheads - Sherlock wouldn't have a clue**

**Arcoiris: Really appreciate comments about different POV`s - good to know!**

**Guest: Brilliant - thank you!**

**... still feeling a little bit not good about Lady Violet - hopefully there will be more on her later.**

**P.S. Molly never did get in that car sent by Mycroft.**


	12. Unravelled

This evening, just after I got Sholto into bed (after disarming a few more of his little devices) I received a rather unexpected and interesting email from Sherlock. I had thought he would be too immersed in _wall to wall romantic bliss_ to email anyone, then I remembered that it _was _Sherlock.

**To: doc_jhamish_watson .co .uk**

**From: Sherlock_holmes221. hotmail .uk**

RE: The Return of the Entomology Ghost

John,

I trust you are thrilled slightly by the sensationalism of my title. I did it partly as a homage to my blogger and partly because I am slightly `_untethered_` owing to a heady cocktail of _oxycodone_ and _fentanyl_ prescribed by Molly Hooper. I think she prefers me subdued at times.

I am more than bored at present, since Molly will not allow me to travel until my ribs are a little better – quite the fuss over nothing, as usual. I am therefore using this time to share a rather interesting up-turn of events which has transformed a derisible _romantic pantomime_ into a very satisfying weekend. I should mention (since Molly has just reminded me) that a rather fine lady has lost her life, which does, actually, upset me quite a bit (I told you I was untethered). Apart from that, though – fascinating.

Today I apprehended a murderer – our own hotel Concierge, Mr Jephro Rucastle. However, that was not always his name.

I trust you remember Mrs Alice Cunningham and her Facebook page for posted sightings of her disappeared son? An interesting man, who went to a great deal of trouble to disappear and escape quite a few dangerous looking creditors. Also, you may remember him as a trained entomologist from Imperial College, who took off whilst in a jungle in Suriname. Would you care to speculate, John, who Mr Cunningham`s expedition leader was, seven years ago in the Guiana Shield?

Only the esteemed biologist and coleopterologist, Lady Violet Hunter.

He knew of her very special and potentially ground-breaking research, and when the time came (as I knew it would) that he was out of money and time, he chanced upon some press reports, decided to revisit his academic roots and take something that had cost someone else ten years of their life and total dedication. This must surely be the most despicable type of robbery, John. I do not even remotely believe that he could pass the work off as his own, but he could blackmail and extort, possibly selling it off to the highest bidder. Did I mention how repulsed I am by this idea? I may be repeating myself and for that I apologise. Feelings are awful, and I don`t remember signing up for them.

_Sorry. Drugs_.

How did I know Mr Cunningham was also Mr Rucastle? I may just tell you, since you are going to type this up in your usual overblown style anyway, and the finer details may end up being thin on the ground.

Start with the victim. Someone had murdered Lady Hunter by strangling her with her own USB cord. Someone, therefore, strong and powerful. My main problem was access. How did a murderer enter and leave a locked room when the only corridor leading to the room was constantly filmed? The _perpetually puzzled_ DI Wynyard and I examined the exterior of the building. The night before, I had heard Lady Hunter asking to be moved from the ivy covered front of the building to the creeper-free rear. A man wishing to access via the window, which was my next idea, would perhaps have been able to climb the ivy in the dead of night, but what if there was none? On the wall beneath Lady Hunter`s window, I found many traces of a gum-like substance (chemical analysis pending), as well as sections of broken mortar between the bricks. I also, thrillingly, found a tiny twist of green nylon rope, lodged within a crevice. All these disturbances were reaching as high as the window itself. To what, John Watson, do we attribute these strange findings?

Looking, now, at the physicality of our killer. Alec/Jephro is a compact, yet strong and muscular man. His shoulders and arms are particularly powerful (as I may painfully testify) and he certainly has the build of a climber. When he handed me my key card and when he showed me a ladybird from my collar, I noted that his knuckles were scuffed and his hands were well-developed and exhibiting the callouses particular to climbers. The day after the killing, he also showed a slight tremor, which indicated recent exertion and possible climbing activity. Are you following, my faithful biographer and frequent admirer of my methods? I am sure you are, since you have a keen and under-used mind of your own, John – please let it loose on this latest conundrum, and we can _lavish_ praise upon each other. (Molly is saying this is _too much_, but I am deleting her comments as I refuse to be edited. She did, admittedly, help to save my life again, but I can only dispense so much subservience before I rebel).

After I apprehended Jephro/Alec (_I must share that later, John – utterly thrilling_) a thorough search of his room unearthed several very interesting looking customised suction cups, the aforementioned gel, a green climbing rope and various pitons, nuts and karabiners, which climbers use. A powered vacuum pump was also in evidence, all pointing towards the utterly bizarre, yet intriguing notion of a _human fly_ – a man climbing a sheer wall to get to his prize. His numerous break-ins around Imperial College had allowed him to rifle Lady Hunter`s belongings, discovering her preferences and choices of hotel retreats. He had been working at The Copper Beeches for over four months. He was awaiting her visit, since other avenues had proved fruitless. A very tenacious little entomologist, clinging to his plan, much in the way he clung to the brick and stone beneath his fingertips.

Alec knew no cameras were trained on this section of _The Copper Beeches_, and felt he could use his strength, expertise and tailor-made equipment to breech all security. He also ensured Lady Hunter`s nightly whisky sour was a little more medicated than usual, to keep her docile when he removed the USB stick. I suspect he hadn't anticipated her tolerance, or the fact that she spilt half of her drink when picking up her bag that evening. As you can imagine, John, there was a struggle, and the poor lady succumbed to a stronger and more resolute force than her own.

Thus, before the arrest, I had suspected there was a little more to Jephro/Alec than met the eye. The final confirmation came when he removed the ladybird from me and not only gave it its proper scientific name (_coccinelidae_) but also the name of its prey (_phytophagus_). Suriname, the Guirana Shield and poor Mrs Cunningham all came back to me and I called a meeting with our human fly down in a quiet part of the hotel when he was on his break. Denial led to anger, and we all know where anger leads, do we not, John Watson?

The USB stick has been recovered, and it is some small solace that Lady Violet Hunter will indeed have her opportunity shine, albeit, posthumously. My next email will be to Mrs Alice Cunningham, informing her that I have both good and bad news concerning her missing son …

… Molly is being a little difficult about the lap top, John …

… apparently, I am _drooling_ slightly (ridiculous notion) and should not be `_composing professional emails to clients_` in my current condition …

… things are getting ugly here now, John, therefore I must leave you … Molly has called me a `_thrill-seeking demi-junkie of the first order_` whereupon I have countered with `_pernicious_ _enabler_`, which has resulted in the power cable being confiscated.

Childish.

Particularly when one is actually _gestating _a child.

Laterz

Sheerluck x

PS car was already registered at Uni from when Cunningham was a student there – still on system and

**x**

And there ended Sherlock`s email. I can`t wait until he reads it back tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**Arcoiris - I agree - there are not enough women scientists in the world, and Lady V was a loss. Yes, Molly stayed, and I think Mycroft has the measure of her (hopefully) at last.**

**I wonder if John will tease Sherlock about this drug-addled email? Hopefully...**


	13. The Doors of Perception

Mycroft comes to Baker Street to visit me, which is just as well, since I have determined upon a boycott of the Diogenes Club for the foreseeable future. The silence actually hurts my ears. Both John and Molly lament at my `_affectations`_, but I stand firm, and my brother finally understands this.

Or he could just be feeling a little (dare I say it)_ guilt?_

"_Chateau Yquem 1976_ – have you taken leave of your senses?" I survey the bottle in his hand.

"I thought it fitting – a wine well known for its complexity, sweetness and longevity."

"And the year of my birth, too – people may talk."

"It is also known for its superior first growth, which puts it in a much higher price bracket than other Sauternes."

"Ah, you think of _superior first growth_ as _yourself,_ older brother?"

"Interpret as you will, Sherlock. I am merely here to deliver a debt of thanks for your work in the Copper Beeches case – the best that could be done, under the circumstances. You must also understand that my original intent was not to hinder the romantic hideaway of Doctor Hooper and yourself – "

"Molly."

"I`m sorry?"

"Her name is Molly. I have fathered two children with her, live in the same house as her, and I – well _– it is_ … I think such formality is a ridiculous affectation. Desist at once."

My unusually obsequious brother nods briefly in agreement, and I take pity and offer him a seat. I am, despite wickedly painful ribs and spine, feeling unusually magnanimous at present. I can`t really get to grips with myself currently, and need to understand this unusual mood. Luckily for us both,drugs are no longer in my system. Mycroft often takes great delight in assessing my moods and goading me into a spat, but I feel he has sensed my indolent and languid demeanour and means to indulge me. He is certainly staring, rather impudently, as I lie (rather uncomfortably) across my sofa (_no position is comfortable at present, sadly_), wishing I could smoke again.

"You have questions."

"As do you."

"You first," I say.

"Why, Sherlock, do you imagine Alec Cunningham carried out his plan after he saw you at the reception desk that evening? He was brokering an almighty risk."

This is as close to a compliment as my brother has ever bestowed upon me, so I allow myself to revel in the warm glow of its rarity before I deign to answer.

"He had no other window of opportunity. His plan was prepared and Lady Violet was only staying one night. He suffered an unfortunately fatal combination of dire need, delusion, desperation and arrogance. He genuinely thought he could outwit me."

We both lie/sit and momentarily contemplate the outrageous arrogance of this belief.

"Your turn," I counter. "What was the secret held in the glands of the _Somellian Water Beetle_? Do not lie to me, Mycroft – I spoke to Lady Hunter the night before she died, and I know how strong her belief was. She seemed to feel it was the best thing since Madame Curie and radiation – "

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft looks, surprisingly without artifice, across at me and I instantly know he will not be lying.

"Yes, it was – is – a discovery so fantastically unique, valuable and incendiary, that it will not be seeing the light of day until we have decided what to do with it."

I stare at him.

"Mr Cunningham had only the barest idea of the importance of the theft. He was merely interested in a way to boost his ill-gotten gains. This is good. The ignorance serves us well."

I wait, and Mycroft sighs. He is very much lacking his usual assurance and I confess – I am a little fearful.

"The serum that Lady Hunter distilled from the beetle contains an enzyme which, for the first time, should allow scientist to break down the DNA of a living creature and – interfere – with its progression."

"Interfere?"

"Stop. The serum has the potential to alter the way that cells regenerate. It slows down the degeneration of the cell each time it reproduces. Cells can last longer between each regeneration."

I am cold, and hot. My breath is tight in my chest and, bizarrely, my eyes are pricking.

"You are telling me that this serum can slow down – the ageing process?"

"The potential is there." Mycroft takes out his handkerchief, and wipes it across his face. I have never witnessed this action from him before in my whole life.

"No-one must know of this potential, Sherlock. Not for a very long time, if ever."

Lady Violet, it seemed, was not to have her _grand reveal_.

I lie, silent and breathless. I hope, in some part, my damaged ribs are responsible for this. _Oh, Violet Hunter, what have you done?_

"Open the bottle, Mycroft. I need a drink."

And he does.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Chateau Yquem can cost several thousands of pounds for a single bottle, so opening it would be a very desperate/extravagant gesture on Sherlock`s behalf.**

**Apologies to any real scientists out there...**

**Arcoiris: I`m really glad you think it fits in character wise - and sorry if it made you late, but I quite like lateness (see last story) in the right context! Hope you caught the movie. :)**


	14. Greg and the Missing Keys

Greg and Seiga : An Interlude

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? … (_turning away from the desk and stepping up a stair to shout through a doorway)_ Hey, Johnson, is Greg even _in _tonight?... Nah, he`s been off with that bloody film business …What? Ha ha ha! – nah, _Colombo_ actually _solved _a few! … Ha ha ha! – yep … some lass here after him _(stepping back from the doorway and towards the desk)_ Sorry, Miss, but you`ve just missed him – left by the Giltspur Street entrance – hey! Where are you - ? Oh … well … `_thanks for all your help officer_!` Dunno why I bother…" _(general disgruntled mutterings)._

**_X_**

" – I`ve already said, Boss, he`s shaved it off and it`s fine – "

"Yeah, shaved it off AFTER filming has finished, Sally – too bloody late!"

"It`s all rubbish, that PR junk – as if a bit of a beard would make anyone look _untrustworthy_ – "

"Sally, everyone at the test screenings said Anderson looked bloody well _dodgy_ with that nasty _pie frill_ of a beard. `Untrustworthy` was one of the more polite opinions, I can tell you."

Donovan stops, suddenly, halfway down the flight of stairs, causing Greg Lestrade to shove awkwardly into the wall, carrying a bunch of files, in attempt to avoid a collision.

"Jesus, Sally – "

"Boss – " He doesn't like stopping, especially since he`s nearly dropped half a dozen eye witness accounts which he`d promised the Superintendent would be _personally checked_ by him by the next morning – but … he likes that quizzical look upon her face even less.

"S`been months, Greg."

Bugger. She never called him `Greg`. This could only mean what the lads on the darts team called a `D.A.M`, or `_deep and meaningful_` - a conversation you needed to avoid having with a woman, at all costs.

He sighs. It`s been a rubbish few weeks, and an even crappier couple of months. He just wants to get home, crack open a Carling, put up his feet and finish this bloody pile of paperwork before falling into bed. Tragically poor effort, as aspirations go, but he had long since stopped shooting for the moon where happiness was concerned. Expect a little bit and you`ll not be too devastated when you get bugger all.

"Home, Sally," he nods towards the general direction of the ground floor. "Let`s go."

"All I know is," mutters Sally Donovan, not quite under her breath as they carry on their downward journey, "she`s rang the switchboard every day with a message for you. Three months of messages, Boss – "

"Leave it, Sally, I mean it."

Last flight now and he`s supremely glad his car is parked advantageously well for a speedy getaway tonight. It`s as if he knew.

"You were – " She stops at the door to the outside – ah, so close –

" – _happy_, with her."

And she silently winces, as a pinched look forms between his eyes and his brows draw together. His speckled grey head, still stiff with product, looks down to her shoes, then up to meet her eyes. His mouth is bunched up, tense and set hard, like _armour_ for his words.

"Fool`s Paradise, Sally," he whispers.

She touches his shoulder, briefly and in apology, as he leans into the sprung door, pushing to open out into the cold night. Then the door closes behind him, shutting out her concern.

Greg briefly wonders, just for a second, how he`s going to get the keys to his beautifully positioned car out of his pocket without having to lay down the bloody folders on the wet ground, when his eyes and ears are shocked by the sudden _double flash/beep-beep_ of a remote opener.

_Clunk._

The locks are open and the alarm is demobilised, and he spins around to see a small, blonde haired figure step out of the shadows. She is holding a key fob.

She is holding _his_ key fob.

"Hej, Gregory, you seem a little – overwhelmed?"

And thirteen eyewitness accounts in buff manila folders are cascading to the ground, scattering to the four corners of the New Scotland Yard car compound, however quickly the breeze decides to take them.

And this is because Greg Lestrade finds his arms now full of Seiga Harbargera, and she is cool, and she is hot, and she is tiny and fragile, yet bigger than anything he has ever had to handle, and she is kissing him, holding his face in her small, cold hands.

"Seiga," he gasps into her wild, fluorescent hair, "Seiga, you lied so many lies to me."

Her hands reach round, pulling his head down and fitting her body into every space around him.

"Till alla, min älskling," she breathes, "to everyone, _everyone_."

And he looks briefly into her bright, blue eyes before kissing her beautiful mouth; crushing and deep.

"You taste – " and again, " – you taste ... _dangerous_," he whispers, knowing he is already lost.

And Seiga clings to him; she is safe.

She is home.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Loving DI Lestrade. That is all.**

**Till alla, min älskling - to everyone, my darling**

**Arcoiris: Sherlock POV can be quite interesting!**


	15. Bombshell

John Watson Blogs:

The past three months have seen a most continuous and intense period in the workload here at Baker Street. I have rarely seen my friend, Sherlock Holmes, work so ceaselessly and without respite to solve the problems presented.

Examples include:

_The Case of the Reluctant Grandfather_ – a mistaken identity

_The Adventure of the Disappearing Fan girl_ – lying teenage boyfriend

_The Case of the Grateful Stepmother_ – a modern day Snow White, in reverse

_The Adventure of the Family Recipe_ – hellish time down at the WI (seriously, do not underestimate them)

_The Missing Emoji_ – I really have no idea

These are just a small sample of the cases that found themselves jostling for space within Sherlock`s inbox. It most likely had much to do with the general crime rate rise and public panic, which Mycroft and his cronies have been trying to avoid via `_The Last Bastion_` TV programme. This is due to air during September, and Sherlock is indecently gleeful that he only has around four minutes, whereas DI Greg Lestrade has a half hour of his department`s day to day life being scrutinised. I know Sherlock feels some degree of sympathy for the Detective Inspector as he deigned to speak with him and even managed to avoid sulking when his sister, Seiga announced they were dating again. Moving on up, everyone.

Comments: (16)

**G Lestrade**: Am dreading it, everyone

**Mary Watson**: Greg, you are a rugged silver fox, and everyone will be distracted by that – don't worry.

**G Lestrade**: aw, thanks Mary

**Sherlock Holmes**: If these cases ever see the light of day, I won`t like you any more, John Watson.

**JHW**: Ridiculous man – every one of these ended up with a happy client and a job well done. Credit where it`s due, Sherlock.

**Harry Watson**: hey, Sherlock, I`ve lost my penguin – can you help me?

**JHW**: Harry, I told you not to play if you can`t be nice.

**Harry Watson**: I am being nice. Penguins are lovely.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Put the bottle back in the fridge, Harry Watson.

**Harry Watson**: I am sober, for your information.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Then, I have nothing but pity for your motives. Goodnight.

**Harry Watson**: Sorry – I can be a bit of a bitch, it seems.

**JHW**: He`s done good, Harry. Most of these were unpaid cases.

**Harry Watson**: I know. Sorry Sherlock.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Accepted. Goodnight again.

**Molly H**: John, have PM`d you – get back to me when you can.

**X**

Pathology_Queen_MH

pathologyqueenMH

**I am a Pathologist at St Bart`s Hospital and enjoy solving all kinds of puzzles**.

Hi everyone,

A favour? I know this Twitter is followed by many followers of John Watson`s Blog. Big secrecy here, so, everyone – follow the link. We`re hiding this from Sherlock (he hates Twitter) for now! http./www mollyhooper co uk. /video_upload/thankyou

Reply Re-tweet Favourite More

21,421 re-tweets 43,531 favourites

**X**

Autumn slips over the Capital like a slightly chilled and misty blanket of crispy leaves and red berried hedgerows. Scarves and coats are brought out of storage, nights draw in a little earlier each time, and street lit walks home become the norm.

Mycroft`s TV project, `_The Last Bastion_" is received well, leaving both he and Greg Lestrade looking and feeling ten years younger once reviews were in. The Guardian led with a headline:

_**Last Bastion**_** – **_**Ten Reasons Why Britain Is Still Great`**_

The Independent:

_**`Why We Care About Our Carers`**_

and The Sun:

_**`UK is OK!`**_

Sherlock`s caseload increased further, and although frequently exhausted, he was quite beside himself with the variety of little problems coming at him out of the woodwork. As ever, cases were taken on merit and intellectual integrity.

Molly Hooper blossomed overnight and was hugely pregnant by mid-September. People sent knitted booties and hats – lots of them. Boxes full, in fact, which Molly, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and sometimes even Seiga, spent time re-directing to charities. All quite bizarre, but a little wonderful too.

Excavation and building work in the basement at Bart`s carried on a-pace, which resulted in a rather erratic shift pattern for Molly. This, in turn, resulted in fatigue and family deprivation.

"Excuse me, madam, but you appear to be lost. This is 221B Baker Street, may I call you a taxi?"

"Hilarious, Sherlock. Yes, I know, we haven't seen each other in quite a while, but it`s your doing as much as it is mine."

"You look a kindly person – if you see a strawberry-flavoured woman by the name of Molly Hooper pass your way, please direct her to my quarters at once."

"Been practising your sarcasm? Ho, ho, Sherlock."

**X**

Six o`clock, and one, bare hour to go before home, bath and elevation of ankles. Molly Hooper couldn't wait. She was working `_up to the wire_` (as Mary called last minute Maternity Leave) to get as much time with the children (_children! Oh my goodness!_) after the birth, but the standing up was taking its toll. Sitting down autopsies had become a way of life (and death) and her wheelie-stool had morphed into a fifth limb.

Roll on seven o`clock.

It was dark out, and assistants Sarah and Joanne were helping out tremendously with the heavy lifting and carrying. Sarah wheeled Mrs Barron (_age 56, anaphylaxis from ingesting truffle oil – unlucky_) back to cold storage, putting her ear buds in as she went.

"I`ll pretend I didn't see you with that iPod, Sazzle," comments Molly, without looking up from her notes.

Sarah, all five foot ten of Kenyan haughtiness, pouts, just as Benedict might.

"Aw, Molls, it`s so noisy across there – the banging and hammering and drilling. They've been at it for – centuries…"

"Five and a half months."

"I`d rather have Beyonce than pneumatic drills in my ears, Miss Molly." She grins, winningly and Molly gives in.

"Ah, get away with you – just don't let Sanderson catch you. He`s a bitter fellow these days."

Joanne – short, round and smiley – steps out of the office with a cup of tea for Molly.

"Angel."

"You deserve it, pet lamb. You`ve been working on that lady, and that throat dissection since three without a break. You`re growing a _person_, Molly – it`s pretty much a full time job all by itself!"

Molly rubs her face and sighs. She aches _everywhere_, and the figures on the page are beginning to blur, even with her glasses.

"I know. I just wish there was two of me. I`ve got so much to finish off before I go on leave."

"Why don't you ask your _doppelganger_ on third floor neurology? She could fill in and no-one would ever know – for a bit, anyway."

Molly laughs a little and takes a biscuit from Joanne. There was a trainee doctor (first spotted by Mary Watson) in the hospital, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Molly. Same swingy hair, if a little lighter and shorter, and until recently, a similar build.

"Not so much doppelganger as _double-ganger _now," mutters Molly Hooper. "I would easily make two of her."

Joanne puts an arm round her and pulls her in for a maternal type cuddle.

"You`re having a _bay-beee_! Lucky little Molly, with her two lovely babies and the best looking baby daddy I`ve ever seen in real life – ha ha ha! – glad I can still make you blush over that!"

Molly shakes her head, rueful, yet accepting. Sherlock will make her blush till her dying day, she supposes.

Thankfully.

**X**

Sally Donovan is blushing hotly as she faces Sherlock Holmes. She feels that hiding it will only make it worse, and it doesn't do to let him see your weaknesses.

"You`ve no proof."

"Yes I have. The cinema ticket, the fading rash on your chin and the hair product in his car."

"You can`t just make up gossip to embarrass me, Sherlock."

"Agreed. Which is why I`m telling the truth, Sally."

"_Your_ version of the truth."

"Until nine days ago, Anderson sported a dreadful parody of a beard. I told him to remove it. Your rash has improved over those nine days."

Sally`s eyes widen in outrage.

"He shaved that off for ME!"

Sherlock smirks as he opened the file on the desk with one gloved hand.

"I prefer my babysitters clean-shaven."

And then, since he catalogues four (five) external indicators of impending verbal abuse –

"Also, Benedict told me he saw you kissing him."

_Oh dearie me_.

"I`ve nothing to hide!"

"Of course not. I think it a splendid idea you and Anderson are back together. Your last – _attachment_ was less than ideal."

"Sher – "

"Good, so now, if you can possibly manage it, perhaps we can get on with these case notes? I am agog to hear why the Corden Brothers have seen fit to bother us again."

And Sally looks down to the file, cheeks still aflame, but with a growing and inexplicable sense of relief.

**X**

Molly Hooper tips two Paracetamol into her palm. Way too much leaning over dead things today – her back and neck were so sore. She stretches arms above her head and checks the clock again, since her mobile had died some time ago. Quarter to eight! Oh, this was ridiculous – someone should stage an intervention and stop her working! Someone should just step in and say, `_Molly Hooper, go home! You are not indispensable; you need to go back to see you son and your Sherlock, and lie in a darkened room for a while.` _

She looks around, wondering what has happened to everyone else, then the alarm cut through the silence like a scream, and she jumps so much, her clipboard clatters to the ground.

**X**

Sherlock and Sally Donovan have the photographs spread all over the desk – a gruesome tableaux of what happens when someone opens fire with an Uzi 9mm in a crowded night club.

"The shoes," mutters Sherlock, absently, peering closely with his lens at a photograph.

"Not to your taste?" Sally is still, after all this time, wary around him.

"Not Italian leather, that is for sure."

"Is that a problem?"

"It is in _this_ family."

But her reply is cut short as the pale and wide-eyed face of John Watson appears around the door. His knuckles are white, notes Sherlock, and his shirt is buttoned incorrectly.

"You`ve got to come now – there`s a UXB been discovered – another one. Could very well be _live._"

"Don` t they have squads for that sort of thing, John?"

"It`s at St. Bart`s."

_Molly._

**_X_**

Molly gathers herself, and gingerly bends down to recover the fallen clipboard.

_Big mistake._

A sharp pain, starting in her lumbar region and travelling around her stomach muscles grips her like a vice, and doesn't let her go for a second or two. When it does, Molly has to sit down, on the floor and put her head between her knees (as far as she could) since a wave of faintness washes over her, making her feel sickly and weak. She breathes in and out several times in this position, trying to calm herself down. She knows her heart is racing and her head and face are clammy. After the pain has passed, Molly, still on her backside, slides herself over to the central autopsy table and leans against one its legs.

_Shit._

Her eyes are closed, but she is dimly aware that, alongside the siren-like alarm, pulsating in her ears, there is also the sound of feet – many feet – walking briskly, running even, down the corridor outside. She wants to get up and join the throng, since there is nothing about that alarm that says `false`, but –

Nothing about her labour pains say _false_, either.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**Oh Molly, why are your births never simple?!**

**Guest: It is great to see those two back together - opposites do attract!**

**Arcoiris: I think that is a rather splendid idea - The Adventures of Ben & Sholto WILL happen - watch this space...**

**Mel: Ha ha! I don`t think you should be sorry at all! I don`t think we`ve seen the last of that purple shirt slo-mo (Anthea is a little wicked, after all)**


	16. Alone does not protect me

Sherlock isn't thinking clearly. The moment John Watson sees this, he takes over.

"Sally, you ok to drive?"

She already has the keys in her hand as they enter the car compound and holds them up in the air as proof. John pushes Sherlock into the back seat and jumps in after him. Greg is following with the bomb squad.

"It`s OK, evacuation is well-under way, Sherlock. She`ll be out by now, you`ll see." John doesn't like the blankness in his friend`s face. Sherlock opens his palm where his phone is lying.

"She isn't answering, John. She always answers."

John looks to the front as Donovan pulls away in a slightly unnecessary screech of tyres.

"She`ll be out by now," he repeats, grimly.

**X**

Mary Watson stands on the pavement, well inside the `safe zone`, listening to the voices around her. A mixture of panic, exhilaration and excitement.

" – one of the crew nearly drilled right through it – "

" – the diggers were inches away – "

" – been down there for sixty years; could have gone at any minute – "

" – Dr Clark saw it; said it was massive – "

" – could take down the whole building – "

" – someone said it was _ticking_ – "

Mary shudders in the dark, and only partly due to the cold. She sodding hated bombs – a bloody coward`s weapon, even it _was _sixty years old. She craned her neck again, scanning the sea of bodies pulsing out of the four or five exits of Bart`s.

She suddenly saw a face she recognised as Sarah Gnezere trotted passed her. Mary put out an arm out to stop her.

"Molly – Dr Hooper, in the Morgue – did she come out with you?"

Sarah looked, taking in Mary`s white coat and stethoscope. She recognised her face from the papers and the telly.

"No, but it`s ok – I saw her way ahead of me, she was out well before I was. She`ll be here somewhere… bloody hell, this is totally mad isn't it? I told Molly she should have gone home an hour ago, but Molly Hooper is stubborn! I`ll go check around, Mary."

Mary feels a little weight lift. Molly was out. Thank God! This was no place for her right now. She follows Sarah as they both search.

**X**

The corridor has gone quiet now. The siren is still slicing through the building, but the atmosphere of the place has completely changed. Molly grits her teeth as another rictus spasm takes her over. She is now on all fours and the sweat is pouring off her face, running down her neck and dripping onto the floor beneath.

Everyone has gone.

It`s just her.

Her, and the dead.

**X**

Sherlock has regained his composure and the power of speech, it seems.

"Sally, taking this route will save two minutes – it is 2.7 miles and should take approximately ten minutes – "

"I`ve got SatN – "

John places a hand on her shoulder.

"Sherlock knows the way," he says, firm and dark in his command.

And she lets Sherlock direct her.

"Take Broadway to Victoria Street towards Giltspur and veer left to Parliament Square …"

And no-one needs a SatNav at all.

**X**

Mary sees the blue flashing lights of the police and the bomb squads arrive and she runs across, Sarah still in tow.

Her husband is amongst the gaggle of people alighting from the cars and he finds her almost immediately, without even calling out her name.

"You ok?"

"Fine – Sarah here has spotted Molly on the way out – she saw her leave."

By now, Sherlock and Greg have joined them, just in time to hear Sarah shout out:

"There she is! I knew I`d seen her – Molly! Molly, we`re over here!"

But as the girl turns, it is only too clear that it was the trainee doctor from Neurology who had escaped, after all.

**X**

_Oh bloody bollocks to hell_ – this was so much worse than last time. It seems that _this_ baby doesn't _just_ want to be _born_, it wants to be _ejected_ from her body in a sodding sling-shot, made entirely of barbed wire …

Molly is curled up on the floor, foetus-like herself. She has rid herself of most of her clothes, since she seems to have become a human fireball in the effort to expel this child. Where is the lavender oil? Where is Pachelbel's Canon, playing softly in the background? Where is a soft bed and soothing encouragement? Oh God, where is SHERLOCK?

They say that babies should be born into a room full of serenity and positivity … a haven to calm the trauma the baby has suffered during birth.

Benedict had his fair share of drama, with snowstorms, Sherlock`s traumatic driving epiphany and a definite language barrier, but Baby Holmes Number 2 was going to be delivered into a giant, pulsating hellish world, that was full of noise, abandonment and … death.

Oh good God, try explaining that to a child psychologist ten years down the line.

And then, the rest was silence.

The noise stops, as suddenly as it began, and Molly offers a silent prayer for herself and her baby.

Somehow, she is transported to the last time she was in this position; four years ago in Uppsala.

"_Ge mig lite smärtlindring_!"

Last time, she got morphine, this time, there was only the paracetamol in her bag.

Molly raises her hot head from the cold tiles to look towards the spot where her handbag lay, and the woefully inadequate painkillers therein.

Could she be hallucinating?

Feet.

Small feet in black lace up boots.

"_Jag ska göra vad jag kan, lilla Molly,"_ comes a very familiar voice, and the boots walk towards her, legs kneeling at her side.

"Oh, Molly," breathes Seiga, cooling Molly`s head with an icy hand, "you and me, we do love to have the drama in the lab, don`t we?"

And Molly grabs her arm, like an anchor in a perfect storm.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**_Ge mig lite smärtlindring_! - get me some pain relief!**

**_Jag ska göra vad jag kan, lilla Molly_ - I will do what I can, little Molly**

**Mary Watson is a trainee doctor at St. Bart`s**

**`the drama in the lab` refers to the time in `Emails from Uppsala` when Seiga was entrusted by Mycroft to keep an eye on Molly when she was studying there. They both witnessed a break in.**

**Apologies for the profanities, but that`s birth for ya!**

**Guest & Arcoiris: yes! more evil cliffhanger-ness, but at least she`s got some useful company now!**


	17. One more miracle

_`I should be crying, but I just can't let it show._  
><em>I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking.`<em>

Kate Bush – This Woman`s Work

**x**

Sherlock looks around and sees that John, Mary, Greg and Sally are surrounding him, blocking all exits. Hmm, perhaps there is hope for them yet.

"I won`t run."

John: "Yes, you bloody well will. You just need to think clearly – because it`s Molly, you can`t, so we are helping. What is it to be, Sherlock, _defuse or rescue?"_

Sherlock looks at his friend …

_You know me so well that you are prepared to let me choose the route to be involved in this rescue. _

He looks at Lestrade, Donovan, Mary, and _– (is that the Parrot Lady …?)_

_They all want to do something – something that will probably not directly benefit themselves, but will help others … help me._

_They all want to help _

_me._

_?_

_This is a selfless act, and these are good people; they are MY people …_

"John!"

"Sherlock."

"You defuse, I rescue."

"Agreed."

"John – "

"Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

Smile.

"Back here in thirty, or you buy the beers."

"Agreed."

And they run.

**X**

"Hej, Molly – you are strong, and you can do this."

"God, Seiga, what makes you think I`m _strong_?" Molly is lying on the floor of the mortuary, bearing down so hard, she sees starbursts behind her eyeballs.

"You are with my brother – _strong woman_, Molly!"

A pause, filled by panting, gasping, groaning.

Then –

"How are you even HERE?! What was the alarm all about? _Ahhhhh!..."_

"Pant, now, you can`t push yet – Molly, the building has been evacuated. Mycroft texted; a bomb from the Second World War is live in the basement of this building. Understandably, he is worried – "

"Gaaah! … we can`t risk to worry Mycroft! A bomb – _bloody sodding hell_ !– like labour pains aren't enough here – "

"It is in control. I know Sherlock is here, Molly – "

"Sherlock? No, no he isn't here, but I can do this, I can – "

"Molly, I can see the head – "

**X**

Captain John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, pushing his head under the tape in the basement of St. Bart`s.

"Step away, sir, this is a live bomb!"

John smiles. He is as calm as a man who has never really left the battlefield.

"Did you try the OFF switch?" he asks.

**X**

Seiga has her cool hand on Molly`s abdomen, and she is speaking in Swedish. Molly knows around fifty percent of it, but it is strangely comforting. Another language, but someone is here, with me, and we will birth this baby, if the building doesn't go up, that is …

A new, and excruciating pain builds and threatens to rip her from top to bottom …

"Shit! Oh _shitshitshitshit!_ Oh fuckity-fuck, this is SO NOT GOOOOOOD!"

And then, a _new_ hand lays across her brow and smoothes away her hair, and a _new, deep, soft_ voice enters her head.

"I am _intoxicated_ by your charm, Molly – you always manage to unfurl a new nugget of loveliness when I least expect it."

Her eyes fly open and meet his …

"_Tardy_!"

"Dramatic."

She gasps through a smile.

"You`re here."

"Obviously."

"_Obvious_ often works … _differently_, with you …"

And she closes her eyes and pushes every fibre of her being into her task.

**X**

Captain John H Watson smiles.

Sixty years of bomb-making technology earlier, and there was still an OFF switch …

He pulls out his phone and texts his wife.

**X**

"Cats, Molly!"

"Gaah! What?!"

"Cats – they can`t taste sweet things – true or false?"

Seiga looks at them both and slowly shakes her head.

"Oh, god, Sherlock – "

"True. Or. False?"

"Give me another!"

"What colour is coca-cola? In its natural state?"

"Ah…bloody BROWN, of course …"

"Nope."

"Sherlock…"

"Yes?"

"If we don't get blown up, I _am_ going to kill you …"

"You wouldn't be the first."

**X**

His feet are running in time with his pounding heart.

Doors flung open – thud, thud, thud – along the corridor… a hand on his shoulder…

"John."

"You can`t expect me to stop and talk, Greg."

"Seiga`s texted me – you need to prepare yourself – "

**X**

I look at her face and I _know _her, just as I knew her brother.

I have always known her.

Her eyes are almost reptilian – I expect to see a third eyelid –a nictitating membrane – closing over her eye, but of course, I don`t. She is hot, and wet, and pink and so ALIVE in amongst all the death. I dare not look at Molly, since there is only so much new data my eyes can assimilate at present.

My daughter moves within my grasp. She writhes and lurches, stretches and wrestles within my arms enough for me to know she is already sure of her own destiny. My daughter will not wait for others to sanction her movements, her thoughts, her actions and her decisions. She is an entity devoid of needing the approval or permission of anyone else, she is herself.

And I am bowled over by her magnificence.

I look over at Molly Hooper and my sister. They are staring at me.

"Molly," I whisper, above the head of this new and perfect creature.

"Molly, how can this be?"

And Molly Hooper, _warrior_ and perfect beauty, finds my eyes and the strength to smile.

"I don`t know, you lunatic," she breathes. "It just IS."

And, I`m happy with that.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**I might just be using artistic licence with the bomb off-switch, but couldn't resist a reference to The Empty Hearse.**

**Guest: Mycroft is always ahead of the game and got Seiga in there to help before everyone else!**

**Arcoiris: Yes, Seiga is calm, brainy and a scientist - she`d be good to have around!**


	18. Stranger Than Fiction

"If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."  
>― Arthur Conan Doyle, <em>The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (A Case of Identity)<em>

**xXx**

Miriam Holmes holds her grand-daughter up high, as if to get a better view. She is dark, she is blue-eyed, she is as alert as a sniper on her first assignment…

_She is a Holmes._

The baby gurgles, and Miriam sees Benedict, from the corner of her eye, enter the room with a plush bee in his hand.

"Is that your toy, darling?"

"It was my _baby toy_, Grandma – I think Viola wants it now. She is still a baby, and I am a _boy_."

Her heart lurched. He WAS Sherlock.

"A marvellous idea, darling. Let`s go in, I think your mummy has a little surprise for your daddy."

**X**

"Molly, what is happening? Is this part of your _witchcraft?_"

"Oh, is that what you`re calling it now? Me, being in charge for a moment or two."

"_In charge_? I am, of course, alluding to the producing of perfect, bewitching children from your own body."

She smiles. Yeah, there was that.

"Sherlock, this is something new … you just need to watch the laptop."

**X**

The mysterious link on Molly`s Twitter account leads to her own webpage, which most of the world, including Sherlock, had forgotten about. Most recently, however, it has seen quite a lot of traffic.

"`_**You Know My Methods: Following Sherlock Holmes**_` - what have you done, wicked one?"

Everyone around the room is silently enjoying a little consternation from the most assured man on the planet. They are also congratulating themselves at their secret keeping.

"Molly isn't the only one guilty of `_wickedness_`, Sherlock; I helped."

"Then your treachery is worse, John Watson, since you have known me longer and won my trust against my will."

John grins and taps the lap top lid.

"Read."

Sherlock begins to scroll down.

He silently reads Molly`s introduction*, then continues, without comment, as he comes to a video:

`The Case of the Grateful Stepmother`

Filmed on a camera phone (John`s, it would seem), it showed Sherlock standing by a relieved looking couple and a mulishly po-faced teenager.

" – _it is therefore, obvious, that Chelsea was the one who had access to the fruit first, and practise with the syringe had given her ample time and skill to inject the poison into the apple. Luckily for all concerned, her understanding of dosage was inferior to the strength of her murderous intent."_

"_Thank you so much, Mr Holmes – we are all going to move on from this_ – "

Then:

`The Adventure of the Family Recipe`

Again, a camera phone, but his time shaking slightly, as it is obviously being picked up from the floor where it had fallen during some kind of skirmish. As it focuses, Sherlock is seen getting up from the ground, appearing a little dishevelled and hauling two middle aged women to their feet. The way they glared at each other certainly hinted at murderous intent.

"_A close examination of your photograph albums show no doubt as to the true owner of the famed Danby Damson Cobbler recipe. Mrs Stornfield, you have behaved in a most disgraceful and underhand manner and almost driven your fellow WI member to the brink of insanity with your campaign."_

Both women are looking to the ground, much in the manner of toddlers.

"_And, whilst no serious crime has been committed, I am appalled at your emotional terrorism and insist that you find some way to make recompense. If this does not happen, and Mrs Taylor does not feel your contrition, then I will be forced to intervene. That would not end well for you…"_

Then:

`The Case of the Reluctant Grandfather`

The video shows Sherlock at a country-style oak kitchen table, sitting between an old man and a girl of about nine years old. They are both looking quite regretful as he speaks to them both.

"_Mr Abernathy, although a similar age and type to your long-lost grandfather, actually has no relationship or link to you, Angela."_

The little girl looks down at the table, sniffing.

"_You have hounded and pestered and made his life extremely uncomfortable and confusing in your quest."_

Further sniffs.

"_However, after speaking with him, I think he may have an idea which would be beneficial to both parties."_

Mr Abernathy looks up, a little smile on his lined face.

"_It`s alright Angela, I`m not cross. In fact, I`ve spoken to your mum and dad, and they wondered if you`d like to adopt me as your granddad? I`ve no grandchildren of me own, you see …"_

And Angela smiles.

**X**

Sherlock has his blank face on, but his silence shows how surprised he is.

"John, you filmed these with _indecent_ secrecy."

"Wasn't aiming for secrecy, but you didn't notice, with all the revealing of the truth and everything. After the first few, I just did it regularly, at the conclusion of the case."

"Why?"

"As a record, to help with my notes. I`ve got loads of them, and Molly and I got together – "

"To hatch out your evil plans – "

" – to put together something that showed the _real_ stuff you do – not the stilted pantomime Mycroft`s guys picked up, but the way you sort things out for people."

Molly continues:

"Sherlock, people only see the big crimes you are involved in, because they are notorious, exciting and usually televised at the trial. The Devil`s Foot thing, the Hounds, Moriarty … all that. John writes about a wide range of your cases, but people don't always notice the small, every day puzzles which affect normal people and upset their lives. Big crimes, maybe not, but we thought we might use John`s footage and let people know, through a more immediate type of media, like film, what you do."

"We know you don`t get paid for many of these little cases, Sherlock," continues Mary. "You do them because you – "

"Love the mental gymnastics and adore showing off?" finishes Sherlock, unusually quietly.

" – well, there is that, but you can`t fool us anymore, we are ON to you."

"Mary – "

"Aw, stop hiding it, your desire to help people isn't something you should be hiding, Sherlock. It`s brilliant, it`s lovely – "

Molly Hooper kneels down, beside his chair and places a hand on his arm.

" – it`s perfect," she finishes, looking up.

_Velvet brown, slightly bloodshot eyes; two hours sleep; only wearing one earring; two (three?) day old mascara. Tired. _

"Face it, Sherlock, your secret is out," smiles John. "It`s not all about the cerebral showcasing at all. You, my friend, are a _good person_."

Sherlock takes in a breath and closes his eyes. This has been – unexpected. He is assaulted by a number of unwelcome and ungovernable emotions which he is struggling, silently, to master.

He hears a voice nearby: Molly.

"People have posted up a few videos of their own, Sherlock. Have a little look."

He opens his eyes.

"_Hi, Mr Holmes! Joanna and I just want to say a big thank you – my family would have been devastated without your help."_ A man and his baby smile and wave at the camera. _The baby is brandishing (and sucking) a golden key…_

"_Hey! Great to know we have this chance to express our gratitude! The boys at the Regiment just want a shout out to you, Mr Holmes – you got justice for our Davey."_ An army barracks, full of waving soldiers (and a maybe slightly unexpected trouser dropping, but still - )

"_Sherrr-lock! Love your work, love your methods, and love YOU! You need to come down here for Fresher`s Week, we`d show you a brilliant time – bring John too!"_ Around fifteen twenty(_-_ish) year old girls, waving from in front of their Student Union Building. A small, dark haired girl, with a stripy jumper runs to the front of the group, holding a placard which reads _`The Purple Shirt of Sex – 750k hits, and counting! Sexxxy Boy!`_

John quickly scrolls down, avoiding Sherlock`s frown of puzzlement.

There were many, many more.

**X**

A day without cake in Baker Street is like a day without rain in London – _rare. _

At that moment, both Miriam and Mrs Hudson walk in, laden with tea trays, sandwiches and a magnificent Victoria sponge.

"The ladies at the WI sent it this morning – very grateful they are, Sherlock."

"Come on daddy," shouts Benedict, thoroughly over excited by visitors, baby sisters, grandmas and now, cake.

"Let`s eat and eat until we feel sick!"

And Sherlock pulls him onto his knee, tremendously grateful that the hideous feeling of wanting to cry has passed.

"Yes, let`s," he says, blinking into the pale autumn sunlight slanting through the sash windows.

Life was infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man could invent.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Ah, it was tempting to go for `Genome`, but even Sherlock realises some names are inadmissible. He chose, in the end, Viola - partly as homage to Lady Hunter, his violin (!) and his favourite Shakespearean heroine, Viola from Twelfth Night. According to naming guides, p****eople with this name have a deep inner need for quiet, and a desire to understand and analyse the world they live in, and to learn the deeper truths. They are**** excited by change, adventure, and excitement. They are dynamic, visionary and versatile, able to make constructive use of freedom. They fight being restricted by rules and conventions. They tend to be optimistic, energetic, intelligent, and may be changeable, restless, untidy, and rebellious.**

**I hope this rings a few bells!**

**Arcoiris and Guest - Yes, I did want to see it from Sherlock`s side too - glad bomb defusing was ok. :)**

*** the introduction on the website can be seen at the beginning of Chapter 1**


	19. An Essential Confernment

"**Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons, with the greatest for the last."  
>― Arthur Conan Doyle, <strong>_**His Last Bow**_

One month later …

It is a lovely, gentle time of the day that I relish and look forward to.

Not breakfast, but not lunchtime, either. People have left for work, for school, for shopping, and the city has a quiet calmness, like a punctuation, or a breathing space in the day. I am unsure when it happened, but everyone is gone from 221 Baker Street, (a rare treat) and I am alone, with my daughter.

The October day has a slight chill around its edges, and I think it wise to check she is covered up sufficiently from malevolent draughts or ill-fated shivers that may find their way to her Moses basket. Medical journals are abundant with stories of hypothermic infants lying helpless in the icy tundra of a 21st Century centrally heated home – or perhaps I am being a tad theatrical? It seems I have embraced sarcasm with a rather ample avidity which Molly Hooper and John Watson may, or may not have commented upon already.

I look down and she sleeps on, unhindered by draughts or cares of any kind, her arms (so disproportionate!) raised up either side of her strangely large head. I have tried this sleeping position to see why babies love it so, but found it uncomfortable and difficult to maintain. I prefer to curl myself around the soothing form of Molly Hooper, anyway, if truth be told.

I do take care to conceal my Excel spreadsheets about the children from Molly. John and Mary thought it best. Apparently, there is a very fine line between observation and experimentation.

Hmm.

Lovely Viola – born with drama and already quite the dramatist herself (when awake), but I suspect I only have myself to blame for that particular facet of the gene pool.

The house is so quiet that the sudden thump of a postal delivery makes me start and my heart race – _A little ridiculous._

I walk slowly up the stairs with the post (_I could have waited for Mrs Hudson, but who knows how long she`ll be at Mr Chattergee`s shop – well, I do know, actually, but my patience isn't as it was_), leafing through the various epistles. All appear hopelessly boring, except, perhaps the padded envelope at the bottom of the pile. This is mostly because I love a parcel (regardless of content, which can be very varied in my line of work) and partly because of the postmark – _Horley, East Sussex_ – and the franking mark from _The Royal Copper Beeches House Hotel_.

Intriguing.

I sit in my chair and open the package carefully (too many times, I made the mistake of not doing so – eyebrows take simply ages to grow back, it seems). There is another envelope within it and an additional padded package, around the size of a woman`s fist (_I really hope is isn't a woman` s fist – I am strangely unwelcoming of body parts this morning_). There is also an A4 sheet of paper, which appears to be a covering letter of some sort, since it holds the Hotel`s letterhead and is meticulously type-written. The envelope has been sealed by a person who enjoys aniseed drops, incidentally.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I am writing, partly as thanks for your discreet involvement in clearing up the awful affair of the late, Lady Hunter, and partly as a heart-felt apology._

_We, I would like to assure you, have made a great many changes to both our staffing and security policies since that time, and I trust you would feel secure during any further visit here. As mentioned at the time, both you and your family would always be honoured guests, any time you cared to drop by._

_My apology concerns a matter related to that night, and a forgotten request. Although I, myself, was not on duty that evening, it seems that a request was made by the Lady Violet Hunter regarding the forwarding of a letter and a package to you. I am sure you can understand that, on that terrible day, the letter and package were quite forgotten about, owing to the dreadful turn of events that came to pass. _

_No-one did pass the letter and package onto you, and I fear it slipped down the side of our reception desk during that stressful time, to remain unseen for several months. Only when the specialised floor polishers visited, three days ago, were the items found and brought directly to me._

_I forward them now, with our most humble apologies at the delay that occurred. I sincerely hope that this delay has not caused any further issues to arise. The packages have not been tampered with, and remain as intact as the night Lady Violet passed them to our receptionist._

_I hope you and your family are in good health, and would like to extend our congratulations on the birth of your daughter, from both myself, and everyone here at the hotel._

_Yours, sincerely,_

_Bernard Toller_

_General Manager_

_The Royal Copper Beeches House Hotel_

Well, well. A letter and a package sent posthumously from my client. I have, I confess, mixed feelings about this case, since I did develop a staunch and real respect for Lady Hunter during our short acquaintance, and I do feel I should have done more to prevent her death. It will always be a source of regret for me, and I experience a small shiver of trepidation as I open her letter. What further light could this shed upon the case?

It is hastily scrawled with an italic-nibbed fountain pen (a vintage model, possibly Mont Blanc), in violet ink (a sweet touch, I note). Hotel notepaper has been used.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I meant what I said in the library of the hotel this evening – you _are_ rather extraordinary._

_I have followed your career via the Blog of Captain Watson, and I must confess that, to me, you always appeared brilliant, assured and cold in it. Please don't take that as an insult (though I rather suspect you won`t) as I am sure that is the image of you the rest of the world is subject to. You need to be seen as the automaton; the machine who calculates and reasons his way through life. This much I understand._

_What I did not expect to see when I actually met you, however, was the humanity you also possess. I watched you and Dr Hooper at reception when you arrived, and at dinner this very night, and your love for her burned as brightly as a blazing comet, as did hers for you. _

_Astonishing._

_Please forgive these slightly insolent flourishes towards a person I hardly know. I have been married, very happily, to two brilliant men, whom I loved just as brightly, and part of me died when I lost them. They stopped me from being the automaton, the machine – the creature who could not feel nor identify with others. Before I met them (and, sadly, afterwards) it was only the work that was my life – the work was everything. I would not have become the human being that I am today without that love, and I feel very glad that Dr Hooper has given you access to your own humanity._

_Yes, this letter is presumptuous, bordering on the outrageous, but I regret nothing. I am old, wealthy and reckless, and I may do as I please._

_Sherlock, the reason I am writing to you is to make you aware of this fragile, essential conferment. Dr Hooper is not someone you can take for granted; you should take her with you through your life`s journey and never let her go. To that end, I enclose a gift for you (and her) which you may wish to use towards this endeavour. Please do not embarrass me with any modest refusals due to the extravagance of this gesture. I assure you that I can afford it and actually would love to see it given to another, to achieve its own journey and purpose._

_Would it help to tell you that it once belonged to a seventeenth century ancestor of mine whom we suspect to have been a pirate, and who came upon it through nefarious means? Knowing you as I think I do, I feel this information would be a help, rather than a hindrance._

_Use this gift, Sherlock. I give nothing without the most careful consideration. I liked you the moment I met you, and I want you to live your life as I have – _

_With all the love you deserve._

_Yours, until we meet again._

_Violet._

**X**

And I must confess, my hands fumble as I carelessly (_haste has thrown good sense out of the window)_ rip the bubble wrap from the package to reveal a small box – a cube of tooled leather, which has a gold embossed insignia on its hinged lid (I recognise the Hunter crest) sitting mutely, on the palm of my hand.

Odd, but my hand seems to be trembling.

Irritating.

I open the lid with these ridiculously stumbling fingers and stare down at the facets of almost _iridescent_ light, radiating from a large and flawless diamond. 3.5 Carats, at the very least; a double-cut brilliant with 17 facets on the crown, largely credited to Italian ambassador, Jules Cardinal Mazarin. He was inordinately fond of gemstones and was responsible for the first double-cut brilliants, later becoming known as `_Mazarins_`.

I ease the diamond ring (_for it is such_) from the box and hold it up to the light, making it glitter and reflect miniature rainbows across the walls. A pirate`s treasure; a bauble pillaged on a murderous rampage; a slicing cutlass and a killing spree, to take this and make it their own.

I smile.

It could not be more perfect.

Oh, Violet, you were also, _extraordinary._

Thank you.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Well, shiver me timbers, there we have it! Sherlock has some pirate`s treasure - whatever will he do with it? **

**Guest: the Purple Shirt of Sex alludes to an earlier chapter where Sherlock was filmed and edited in a rather suggestive way as he walked (innocently) through 221B. Somehow, Anthea was not a careful as she usually is, and it has made its way onto the evil interweb - whoops! If Sherlock does get to see it ... !**

**Arcoiris: thank you! That name may emerge as a nickname!**

**Morgen: yes, their compatibility defies description, but it just IS. I like the Ben/Sherlock violin idea too. There will be more, there has to be!**

**Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favourite and commented on this story - it makes all the difference in the world and cheers me immensely. :)**

**Thank you.**

**Emma x**


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